


A Blinking Light up on the Mountains of Madness

by tikistitch



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, First Kiss, First Time, Great Old Ones, M/M, Miskatonic University, Yes Really, giant albino penguins, lovecraft again, polar exploration, shoggoths, terrible cole porter parodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1930s-era AU (yes, really).  Carlos, an impoverished graduate student attending Miskatonic University, joins an expedition to the Antarctic.  But the explorers get more than they bargained for when they stumble upon a weird lost civilization, including a certain eccentric, caramel-voiced radio host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Can you pilot an aeroplane, Carlos?” inquired Prof. Danforth.

Carlos sat uncomfortably in the straight-backed wooden chair opposite Danforth, Dyer and Lake, trying not to tug on his starched collar. He nudged his spectacles back up his nose. Prof. Dyer's office smelled of stale cigar smoke and old money. 

He sat up straight, pulling his shoulders back. “My father used to fly air-sea rescue missions. He was my instructor. I have been a piloting aeroplanes since I could reach the controls.”

“Oh,” grunted Lake, who had been nursing a clear impatience with the interview. “Your father a business owner? Aeroplane company, then?”

“Uh, no,” Carlos admitted. “He worked at an aeroplane company.”

“His father was a _tradesman_ ,” sniffed Danforth. Although Danforth was just a graduate student like Carlos he affected a distinct air of superiority. His family were full-tilt Boston brahmins, although, as a second son, he was not fated to inherit the larger part of his father's wealth. Nevertheless, it was all but certain given his family's status as trustees that he would be granted an assistant professorship at Miskatonic following his graduation. 

Carlos resisted the urge to pop him one in the nose. Long ago – it seemed lifetimes – Carlos had been a welterweight Golden Gloves boxer. He had never gotten his nose broken, which was a particular element of pride for him. “My father _was_ a tradesman,” he said, his voice a low growl. Danforth seemed to catch the hint of a threat and nervously stroked his wispy mustache. Why would one even attempt to grow a mustache if that was the result?

“Yes, yes, terribly sorry to hear about your father,” blustered Dyer. “Bad luck.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t bad luck. It was sudden wind shear.”

“Ah, yes,” drawled Dyer, who was suddenly making a big deal out of shuffling papers on his desk. “Ahem. You have all the certifications, I take it? The paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“Well then-“

“Here’s what I’d like to do,” Lake interrupted. He had spent the interview tapping his foot and thrumming his fingers on a set of files. While Dyer harrumphed and Danforth looked amused, Lake unrolled a crumbling map out over the clutter of Danforth’s desk. “You see here? When they crossed the Transantarctic range off McMurdo there was another mountain range beyond: higher they reckoned than the Himalayas!”

“Starkweather-Moore?” asked Carlos.

“You’ve read up on your polar expeditions,” said Dyer, whose expression read (to Carlos) as if his Labrador had just spouted in Latin. 

“It’s an avocation. I was fortunate enough to meet Mr. Amundsen when I was a boy.”

“Before his own encounter with wind shear,” said Danforth, which comment, to Dyer’s credit, educed a scolding look from stern professor.

“Fog,” breathed Carlos. “It was probably fog.”

“We’ll probably encounter more of the same,” blustered Lake, who was now madly rapping on his map, scattering eons of accumulated dust everywhere, and causing Dyer’s black Labrador, which had curled up by the fireplace, to look up and sneeze in confusion.

“Starkweather attempted to fly an entire airship over the mountains,” said Carlos. “At least according to the reports.” Carlos did not add, because the men no doubt knew, this stunt had ended in flames.

“Mad. The man was mad!” sighed Dyer.

“We’ll carry aeroplanes in parts, right on our airship. That’s what we’ll do,” said Lake. “Mr. Pabodie has a methodology.”

Carlos smiled, hearing the familiar name. “Oh, yes, Mr. Pabodie! I took an engineering class from him last semester. Is he coming on the expedition?”

“He’s coming, yes,” said Dyer, ignoring Danforth’s sour face at the mention of a topic so base as _engineering_. “And bringing half the shop with him. There’s mechanical marvels such as you’ve never beheld, young man.”

Carlos smiled fondly. Pabodie was a quick-tempered Scotsman who didn’t take any shit from his often snooty trust fund students. “Fuck me for a joke,” appeared to be his favorite expression, although through his thick brogue it came out more like “Fook me fer a jook.”

“We’ll need qualified pilots,” said Lake. 

“ _I’m_ a pilot,” Danforth pointed out.

“Can’t have too many on a mission like this one!”

“And there will be a stipend for you, Carlos,” said Dyer. “Here at Miskatonic, we take care of our widows and orphans.”

Carlos frowned again, not pleased to be brought back to a sensitive subject.

“So, it’s settled,” said Dyer, rising and extending his hand.

Carlos rose as well, though his legs were shaking a bit. 

“Just one thing,” said Dyer, clasping Carlos’s somewhat sweaty palm with a dry hand. “You might consider getting a haircut before the trip. Don’t want to look like bohemians, do we? Standards, you know.”

Danforth sneered.

 

Carlos departed Prof. Dyer’s office feeling morose instead of cheered. He tugged off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket, and opened the collar of his shirt. As the weather was brisk, he decided to take a walk around Arkham instead of going directly home, to see if he could cheer himself out of his mood. He proceeded down Garrison St. towards the river. It was autumn, and the leaves were turning to all shades of crimson and gold. 

“Haircut,” he muttered, putting a hand through his dark hair. There was a small commotion along the riverfront. Some devotees of Baba Premananda Bharati were out dancing and chanting to their god, _“Hare Krisna, Hare Krisna, Krisna Krisna, Hare Hare....”_ Arkham at large detested the cultists, considering them some kind of deviltry, but Carlos found he rather liked their vegetarian cookbooks. At any rate, their saffron robes offered a tint of color to a city that could be overrun with grey at this time of year.

Leaving the dancers with a fond nod, he walked for a time along River street, which brought him out to a cluster of engineering outbuildings huddled in the warehouse district. Hearing a clatter from inside one of the shops, he took a chance and ducked inside. He grinned when he saw the shock of red hair.

“Carlos!” hailed Pabodie. “Get your ass inside before you freeze!”

The dark-skinned man squatting beside Pabodie with a welding torch paused his chores and flipped up his mask, revealing a friendly face. It was Gedney, his assistant.

“Wanna go a round, Mr. Boxer?” asked Pabodie, grinning putting up his fists. Despite himself, Carlos smiled and put up his fists as well, pretending to dodge Pabodie. 

“Aw, Francis, he'll knock your block off,” said Gedney.

Pabodie slung an arm around Carlos's shoulders. “Naw, our lad won't clobber me, though I may deserve it.” 

Carlos looked around at the perpetual chaos of Pabodie's shop. “What are you working on?”

Pabodie and Gedney shared a mischievous look. “We're working on my drill. Going to cart it all the way to Patagonia, and points south! Digging in the dirt, we are.” He pointed to a table, where there was spread out various bits and bobs of an apparatus intended to obtain core samples. 

Carlos whistled low. “That looks fantastic, Frank.”

Pabodie looked Carlos up and down, staring over his half glasses. “What's gotten into you, lad, that you're out and about on an early winter's day without a coat?”

“I had an interview with Prof. Dyer.”

“The secret expedition?” asked Pabodie, arching a bushy eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“You're coming along?” Carlos nodded, and Pabodie grinned wide. “Well then, this is cause for celebration!”

“Dyer needs aeroplane pilots, and I’m qualified. Even if I am a scholarship student.”

“Well, it’s good we’re not all gonna be the stuffed shirts.”

“You're a member of the party too?” Carlos held his breath. A friendly face would mean a lot.

“Sure as fook! Me and Gedney. Not gonna let them take all the glory and the credit for my gizmos.”

“Gonna freeze our balls off, all of us,” grumbled Gedney. 

“We’ll attempt to emulate Mr. Amundsen and not Commander Scott in that regard,” Pabodie declared, to furious agreement from Carlos and Gedney, both of whom treasured the family jewels. The engineer crouched down, his knees cracking in protest, and rummaged around in a low drawer. He withdrew a bottle of scotch whiskey and three shot glasses, which he lined up on a workbench.

“Gentlemen, let’s have a drink then. To the Antarctic, to brave Mr. Amundsen, that foul dimwit Scott, to Professor Dyer, to discovering new worlds, scientific inquiry, and most of all to the continued safety of our balls!” Liquid slopped into the glasses. Laughing, Carlos grabbed a glass and, with his two companions, drained the liquor.

 

“It's late, _miho_.”

“ _Abuelita_ ,” said Carlos, shutting the door to his grandmother's cramped apartment. He went over and kissed her on her forehead, and nodded to his cousin, who was sitting on the worn couch, reading a paperback novel.

“Keeping late hours, scholar boy,” said Ernesto, who made a big show of checking his watch. “You got a little something going on the side? You dizzy for some dame?”

Carlos blushed, but swatted the top of Ernesto's hair to cover it up. “I was out with Pabodie and Gedney.”

“The professor? You can't have any fun, _primo_?” asked Ernesto, sitting down the book with a huff. The cover was a lurid watercolor of a large tentacled monster grabbing a screaming blonde.

“We were celebrating.” Carlos grinned and sat down next to his cousin. Ernesto was only a year older, but liked to act like Carlos's overbearing older brother.

“What were you celebrating, _miho_?” asked his grandmother.

Carlos tugged his tie out of his jacket pocket and tossed it thoughtlessly onto the coffee table, much to his grandmother's consternation. “I was accepted for the expedition.”

“Hey, congratulations, kiddo!” said Ernesto.

The old woman put down her knitting. “It's such a long way to go. Dangerous!”

“This will mean more money for us, _Abuelita_. It's a generous stipend.”

“Are you certain about this, Carlito? Ernesto is still looking for work down at the shipyard.”

“It's pretty useless,” sighed Ernesto. “I think I need to enlist.”

“You'll do no such thing,” scolded their grandmother. “There's a war coming.”

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Maybe in Europe. But we're never gonna get involved. We've learned our lesson.”

“Maybe we need to get involved,” said Carlos. “Hitler is a madman!”

Ernesto picked up his book, waving a dismissive hand. “Let them work it out for themselves.”

“I thought you just said you were gonna enlist?”

“To get the money, not because of any patriotic folderol.”

“Boys, no fighting,” scolded their grandmother. Somewhat laboriously, she got to her feet. “I'm going to bed. It's late. Carlito, if you want something inside you that's not that Scotsman's booze, there's dinner in the oven.”

“Oh, thank you, _Abuelita_!” said Carlos, who found he was still quite hungry. “Good night!” He made his way into the kitchen and, after ditching his suit jacket on the back of a chair (where his it would no doubt remain until his grandmother scolded him the next day) he nosed around for a plate. “You want some, Ernesto?” he asked his cousin, who had followed him. Ernesto nodded and sat down at the small kitchen table while Carlos grabbed some mitts and pulled the casserole dish out of the oven. He served himself a generous portion of rice and beans, and handed the serving spoon over to Ernesto, who seemed uncharacteristically subdued this evening.

“How's my _Tia_?” asked Carlos.

“Mama's good.” 

“So, when I'm away?” Carlos began as Ernesto poked at the pinto beans.

“Mmm?”

“You're gonna stay with _Abuela_?” He tried to keep his voice low.

Ernesto finally selected a small mound of beans that evidently met with his strict standards. Pausing to pull a finger along the serving spoon and then lick it off, he placed the spoon back n the casserole. “Yeah. If I let anything happen to her, Mama would kill me. No, she'd fry me first, and then kill me.”

“Good.”

They ate in silence for a while. Ernesto looked up from his book. “So. Is that rich boy _pendejo_ going along?”

“Danforth? Yes, of course.” 

“You watch yourself with him. That boy is crazy. You can see it in his eyes.”

“He's just annoying.”

“I swear, one night, he's gonna flip, and go after everybody with knives.”

“You read too many dime novels!”

Ernesto held up his hands, and Carlos had to grin. “I'm just finishing one where the Martians take over the world. They're gross, like green octopuses or something. Maybe that Danforth kid is Martian in disguise.”

Carlos chuckled, and ate in silence for a bit while Ernesto looked at his book. The boys had grown up on pulp science fiction, to the extent that when Carlos was accepted at Miskatonic, Ernesto joked that he was planning to take over the world.

“Uh, Ernesto.” Carlos wasn't quite sure why he felt he needed to broach this right now.

“Mmm?”

“You know your thing about me having a girl?”

“Yeah?”

Carlos's face was hot. “I don't- I mean, I don't really go in for that. I mean … girls.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Ernesto didn't even look up from his Martians. “Yeah. I know.”

“What?”

Ernesto put a finger in his book to mark his place. “Teasing you about a girlfriend? I do that for _Abuela_. Look, I may be the stupid one, but I ain't blind.”

“Oh.” Carlos went back to eating. Ernesto read. They sat in silence. 

Suddenly, Ernesto slammed his book shut. “ _Dios mio_!” he cried, putting his head in his hands. “Are you trying to tell me you're with that Danforth kid?”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Good, 'cause I'd kick your ass. That boy is crazy.” He pointed to his eyes, and Carlos laughed. Ernesto looked serious. “I got something to confess too.”

Carlos leaned forward, having no idea what he cousin might say.

“Beatriz?”

“Yeah?” Beatriz was Ernesto’s long-time girlfriend.

“She’s gonna have a baby.”

Carlos was silent, probably for longer than he should have. Normally, this would have been fantastic news, but given Ernesto’s current unemployment and the family’s already strained finances, it was yet another cause for worry.

“That’s wonderful,” said Carlos, with confidence he didn’t actually feel. “You guys will be great parents.”

“I know it’s a bad time.”

“Nonsense. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Ernesto smiled uncertainly, and went back to reading. Carlos sat back and thought about packing. He was a late hire, and the expedition was leaving in days. Fortunately, he didn't have many possessions, so it ought to be a snap. Would he have time for a haircut. He put a hand through his dark hair and smiled. Maybe not. 

 

Sheep. Everywhere, sheep.

Carlos scratched his shoulder. Pabodie had insisted on the tattoo, in honor of Carlos’s crossing the equator for the first time, and Carlos had been drunk enough to agree, at least to the first visit. It had then taken two additional sessions to complete the coloring, Carlos, once he had sobered up, being something of a perfectionist. 

Dyer hadn't been pleased. “Time for a tattoo, but not a haircut?” had been his only comment. But Pabodie had told him not to worry. In a few days time, they would all be growing winter beards. Except maybe Danforth and his wispy facial hair.

After the long sea voyage had finally come ashore here in Tierra del Fuego, where they began frantically unloading the frigate they had sailed down here on and then madly packing the airship for the voyage south. The hangar was located on what was evidently somebody’s ranch, and the grounds were overrun with braying Merino sheep. As Carlos strode out across the fields he could already hear Lake barking at the workmen (in English and some horribly broken Spanish) to hurry things along. 

He entered the hanger and beheld a great commotion as many crates and various pieces of equipment were being laid out in the belly of the magnificent airship. Rumor had it this vessel was courtesy the beneficence of none other than William Randolph Hearst, who had been envious of the various exploits of the Graf Zeppelin. The rigid dirigible had a capacity for 100 passengers and crew, although some of the cabin space would be taken up by the masses of equipment. 

Some men of German origin, supposedly manufacturers representatives and crew, had met them down here. Though they were not in uniform, something in their stiff postures and formal manner suggested to Carlos that they were military men. They kept to themselves, speaking in low voices to one another. Carlos knew only a smattering of German, and mostly by the written word at that, but he had nevertheless overheard them talking about some kind of project. Though his instinct was to avoid them, he nevertheless made note of them, as these were dangerous times.

Despite the clatter and chaos and grim German faces, Carlos’s heart soared as he espied the ship. He adored flying, and it would be a welcome change after the weeks confined on the frigate. Though he had to admit it had been quite wonderful to discover that Danforth was extremely susceptible to seasickness, something Carlos and Gedney just may have potentiated by always happening to have Lake’s marine samples out for dissection when he passed by. 

As the aforesaid Lake was now red-faced and shouting at a couple of local workmen, Carlos heaved a sigh and decided to step in. “Can I help here?” he inquired.

“Talk some sense into this idiot!” Lake barked. “He insists on throwing my dissection equipment at the bottom of the pile. It’s essential!”

Carlos nodded and turned to the equally red-faced foreman. “ _He wants you to leave these items near the top, so he’ll have access to them,_ ” he told him in Spanish.

“ _Heavy items go on the bottom_ ,” the man grumbled. “ _Otherwise it’ll crush everything, the ballast will shift, and your ship will end up crashed on the ice_.” He also offered a few choice opinions of Lake, his mien and his probably parentage, but Carlos did not share these with the professor.

He turned back to Lake. “Unfortunately, there is a kind of protocol to loading the airship, and he expresses reluctance to break it, as it may compromise the aerodynamics. What if you opened this crate and took out the essentials? Maybe you could keep them with you in your cabin?”

“Aw, cabin’s already crowded enough. I’ll never sleep! Well, if that’s the only option, all right.” With Carlos’s help, they grabbed a crow bar, and Lake was able to secure a few tools of the trade.

Carlos spotted his partner in crime, Gedney, over working in the corner, so he slipped away before Lake could pick another fight. He found his friend hunched over a length of dented metal pipe, making generous use of a hammer. 

“Hey, this got a little banged up in the trip, so we’re applying what Francis calls percussive maintenance,” he told Carlos, who laughed. “I'm supposed to be tending to the sled dogs, but I've spent most of my time doing this instead.”

“Lake is about to burst a gasket,” Carlos confided.

“Lake is always about to burst something. High strung S.O.B., if you ask me.”

Carlos crouched down next to Gedney and talked softly, so he would not be overheard. “I don’t understand, why is Lake coming on an Antarctic expedition? He’s a biologist, and there’s not going to be much growing where we’re going.”

Gedney’s eyes lit up. “Ah!” he said, brows arching, “you haven’t heard the fish stories.”

Carlos perked up. There was something about the way he said it that intrigued him. They had always been friendly, he and Gedney, but they had kept to themselves, as Carlos was a student and Gedney a tradesman. But the two had drawn a bit closer during the sea voyage, notably through pranking Danforth. “I’ve just spent three weeks asea, I’ve heard enough fish stories to last a lifetime.”

Gedney made a big production of searching left and right. “OK. Pabodie won’t hear of any of this, says it’s pure grade bullshit, but have you heard tales about the lost civilization?”

Carlos pushed his glasses back up his nose. “But, that’s balderdash! Dime novel stuff.”

“Balderdash, maybe. But Starkweather’s last transmission said he’d happened upon an ancient city.”

“Starkweather was mad! They were all mad at that point! The whole party was probably suffering from scurvy, just for beginners.”

Gedney looked cagey. “That’s what they say.”

Carlos couldn’t believe it. Especially coming from someone who seemed as down to earth as his friend. “And Lake believes this?” he asked, avoiding probing more into Gedney’s opinion of the matter.

“Not just Lake. Dyer too. They think this is their ticket to fame.”

Carlos didn’t reply, but his expression must have betrayed what he was thinking, because Gedney continued, “Sometimes when Francis hits the scotch he gets chatty. I know you graduate students tend to think your professors are better than the likes of us, but they have the same faults as anyone. At least, that’s my take.” He went back to banging on the pipe. “Sorry if I spoke out of turn.”

Carlos struggled to form a reply, but just at that moment, he heard the voice of the venerated Prof. Dyer calling his name. “I'll be back later. Maybe we can catch Pabodie and get a drink?”

Gedney made a noncommittal sort of grunt, and Carlos had to depart. He hurried to where Prof. Dyer was standing just outside the hangar with Danforth and another man he didn't recognize. 

“Carlos,” said Dyer. “I would like you to meet Mr. Pym.” Pym, a strange little red-eyed, dark haired man with a melancholy expression, reached out a pale hand. 

“Er, it's good to meet you, sir,” said Carlos.

“A.G. Pym,” the man muttered. “And, likewise,” he added, though in all honesty he didn't seem terribly pleased by the encounter.

“Mr. Pym is an author of some renown,” Dyer bragged. 

“Oh,” said Carlos, who immediately regretted his ignorance in the matter. 

“You wouldn't have read anything of his,” Danforth told him. “He only writes for the better periodicals.” 

Carlos glared. “You're looking well today, Danforth,” he said. In truth, the graduate student was still a bit pasty-faced. Danforth glared back.

Dyer ignored the pissing contest and blustered on. “Pym is going to chronicle our adventures for the domestic press.”

That got Carlos's attention. “I'm sorry? A- a journalist? We're going to report our results to the appropriate scientific journals, aren't we?” he added.

“Well, yes, of course, of course. But one must have a handle on popular opinion nowadays, mustn't one? At any rate, be a good chap, and show our journalist friend around the ship, will you? That's a good lad.” With a clap on Carlos's shoulder, Dyer turned on his heel and marched away. Danforth gave a final stormy look, and Carlos retaliated by pointing his finger down his throat. Danforth cringed, and followed along with Dyer, the duckling following its leader.

Carlos found two dark, watery eyes staring up at him. “Er. Yes, Mr. Pym-”

“Arthur will be fine,” Pym informed him. He dug into his somewhat threadbare vest pocket and extracted a flask. He gestured towards Carlos, who waved him off, and then took a healthy gulp for himself. His eyes, very briefly, lit up, and he re-pocketed the sliver flask. When it flashed in the sunlight, Carlos noticed the initials inscribed near the top. Oddly enough, they were “E.A.P.,” and not “A.G.P.” He ascribed this to the item being perhaps something owned by a relative of Pym's, like a keepsake.

“I go by Arthur, nowadays,” Pym was saying. 

“Well- Well then, _Arthur_ ,” Carlos stuttered. “This will be our conveyance to McMurdo Sound.” He gestured at the airship, and began to walk towards the hangar. As we are going by air, we will avoid the potential situation of being ice-bound.”

“Yes, a shipwrecked party,” said Pym. “You'll have to resort to cannibalism.”

“Uh,” said Carlos, who was a little taken aback that Pym had catapulted to this particular eventuality. “We are carrying sufficient stocks, actually....”

“You always think it's sufficient,” sighed Pym, who seemed lost in his own little world of woe. 

Carlos started gesturing “And we are carrying as well scientific equipment, and two areoplanes....”

“We drew straws, on that last voyage.”

“Er, I'm sorry?”

“To pick out who would sacrifice themselves.”

It took Carlos only a moment to catch up with the thrust of Pym's musings. “Uh, oh, yes. I take it, it wasn't you?” He cringed, as he sounded thick, even to himself.

“No. It was poor Parker.”

“Oh.”

“And then Augustus followed soon upon. Poor bastard.”

“Well, I'm sorry....”

“By the way,” said Pym, who directed his gaze downwards, “you have very fine haunches on you.”

Flustered, Carlos pushed his glasses up his nose. “Um. Thank you?”

“Would feed a grown man for the good part of a week.”

Carlos didn't have a ready answer for this. Or indeed any answer at all. As it happened, at that moment, Pabodie appeared, Gedney at his side. “Pym,” the professor snapped. “Don't be making a snack of my graduate assistant.”

Pym seemed annoyed. “He's hardly a snack. More a bountiful full meal.”

“Carlos, you're needed,” said Pabodie, grabbing by his no doubt tender and luscious arm and pulling him away from a now faintly hungry-looking Pym. They began walking back up towards their quarters, through the milling sheep and away from the hangar.

“He's, uh, rather a colorful character,” said Carlos when at last the threesome was out of hearing range of the journalist.

“Survived some kind of fatal sea voyage, if you listen to his wild tales,” grumbled Pabodie while Gedney snickered.

“It's not funny,” Carlos told Gedney.

“Oh, it is, brother!” Gedney assured him. “I'm apparently too bony to merit a meal, and Francis would be nutritious but stringy.”

“Get see to your dogs, will ya, you laggart!” Pabodie told Gedney, who grinned and ambled back to the big, rambling ranch house. The sled dogs had been quartered out back, and Carlos could hear them yowling and barking.

Pabodie leaned close to Carlos, speaking in soft tones. “I want you to have a listen to this, Carlos. As the closest thing we've got to a linguist in the party.”

“Linguist?” said Carlos. But, without answering, Pabodie let him to an outbuilding they had taken over as a sort of storehouse/workshop. 

“You can dispense with the false modesty: you speak more languages than the rest of us put together.” Pabodie had barged into the shack and had clicked on a wireless radio. The device hummed, and then whined. Pabodie inched the dial back and forth, and finally, a voice emerged from the static.”

_“...I repeat, the penguin park is absolutely not a place for penguins. Do not go into the penguin park, do not approach the penguin park, do not speak of the penguin park, and in particular, do not think about the penguin park. Ah, but there you are, contemplating the penguin park, aren't you? Citizens who persist in musing about the penguin park will be apprehended and taken to re-education and brainwashing at an undisclosed location, which is actually situated conveniently close to the penguin park._

_“The City Council has also issued an advisory reminding citizens not to feed the Shoggoths after midnight. Not naming any names, but you know who you are, Steve Carlsberg! Remember they will only take slow-moving children, and then only on odd Tuesdays._

_“And in other news, we're all looking forward to the latest expedition party meant to visit our little corner of the globe. Listeners, a little penguin has just told us that a group of intrepid explorers from Miskatonic University are about to pay us a visit. So, polish up those bloodstone circles, and remember to leave your offering of absinth and cookies out by the yule log....”_

The voice faded back into static. 

Carlos was too startled to speak. Pabodie reached over and clicked off the wireless. They sat in stunned silence for a long moment.

Finally, he found his voice. “No one was supposed to know about this trip. Who is that?”

“Give me your honest opinion, lad. Was that a native speaker of English we just heard?”

It was an odd question. Carlos thought back at the voice, which had seemed more than anything else to be preternaturally calm amidst the odd events he was describing. “He seems a native speaker, or one who has at least been schooled in North America.”

“No trace of German accent or idioms?”

Carlos paused. He thought back to the German crewmen, and their hushed conversations. “If you are wondering about his motivations, it is possible whoever is behind these broadcasts has gotten an American they have either hired or threatened to speak for them. Where does this broadcast originate?”

Pabodie flashed an odd smile. “South. As near as we can determine.”

“South of Tierra del Fuego?”

Pabodie nodded.

“Someone is broadcasting … from the Antarctic?”

“Passing strange, I would agree.”

“It's more than passing strange,” said Carlos, thinking that their must be some other explanation. Some rational explanation. 

“I lobbied very strongly for us to bring along a linguist on this trip. But Professor Rice claimed that he had to go off with Armitage on some wild goose chase. We have Wilmarth, but he supposes anything but English and Latin to be beneath him.”

“Did you offer a drink earlier, Frank? I believe I'm in the mood.”

Carlos put away several shots of Pabodie's best hooch that evening.. 

And when he slept, his dreams were narrated by a familiar voice, transmitted from out of the void.

 

At last, after several more arguments and a lot of shifting and re-shifting crates, the _Explorer_ was ready for her journey. One of the unsmiling German nationals sat in the pilot's seat, which didn't go down well with Pabodie, who somehow heard the ship's original name had been the _Reichskanzier._

But Carlos put those worries behind him, as he was excited to finally get into the air. He made yet another check of the hold to assure himself the disassembled airplanes had been properly secured. This was also Danforth's responsibility, but in truth Carlos didn't much trust his counterpart. There had also been no further broadcasts received from the mysterious voice to the south, which somehow reassured him, although he had experienced more dreams of the mysterious broadcaster talking to him. He tried to push it out of his mind, chalking it up to some kind of clever prank. Perhaps someone like his cousin had just been reading too many dime novels.

He hailed to Pym as he boarded. The man was melancholy as usual, although he hadn't troubled Carlos lately about feasting on his nether regions, he always seemed a little hungry when Carlos passed him, so he had tried to avoid the journalist as best as he could. Danforth, for his part, appeared pale enough that Carlos almost felt sorry for the man, although he wondered how someone with such a developed case of motion sickness had managed to qualify as a pilot. 

Nevertheless, the air was clear, the sun was high and the sea was calm, so it looked like a propitious day to embark. The cells were filled with helium and, with the help of seemingly every man in the local village taking a line, the _Explorer_ launched, with a destination of the Ross Ice Shelf. 

Most everyone ran to find a porthole, excited for the first glimpse of the Southern Ocean. They were not out of sight of land for very long, however, as they soon had gained the islands of the Bransfield Strait. Thereupon they sailed over Western Antarctica, hugging the rocky coastline.  
Carlos had thought to grab some field glasses out of his pack, and used them to spot the orcas that breached and spouted in the chill waters. 

 

_“…So I’ve just sent Intern Byrd out to look for the kitty cat, but cannot say when or if he shall return. Godspeed on your journey, Intern Byrd! And please be careful of radiation burns!_

_“Moving on, listeners, we have joyful news: that brand new party of explorers has landed! I’ve heard that they’re a very good-looking lot, with very surprisingly good dental hygiene, which is always important. We wish them good fortune. May they discover many ancient mysteries, and create yet more mysteries of their own.”_

Dyer switched off the wireless radio and glared around the temporary shelter where his party of explorers now huddled. The voice, once faint and shrouded in a cloak static, was now crystal clear.

Carlos rubbed his hands together and then planted them deep into the pockets of his coat. The heater was working, but hadn't been burning long enough to warm the large room. The unsmiling German crew of the _Explorer_ had quite abruptly turned impatient about unloading, and had more or less dumped the exploring party on the ice shelf. They had immediately turned about and made for home, telling the scientific personnel in broken English something about inclement weather, but muttering about other things in German: things Carlos could never quite catch.

They had thus incurred some damage hurrying to unpack all of the crates and equipment. The primary victim had been the light aircraft. Fortunately, it looked to be something they could repair with the available equipment and tools. Not that it looked to be pleasant work in the freezing temperatures.

Carlos started as a metal door boomed open, and the sound of the windstorm whirled outside. The dogs barked and howled. “Be careful, will ye?” boomed Pabodie, as Gedney, grumbling all the time, assisted him to a chair next to where Carlos sat on some unopened crates.

“Not my fault you fell on your ass on the ice, Francis,” grunted Gedney as Pabodie sat down with a grunt.

“Gedney! Language!” scolded Dyer. 

Gedney leaned against the wall in back of his boss and shot a somewhat flustered Prof. Dyer a dark look. 

“Typical,” muttered Danforth, who had seated himself at Dyer’s right hand.

Pym tilted his head, studying the splint that had been fixed around Pabodie's injury. “Hmm. Broken leg. He’ll be the first we’ll sacrifice, if it should come to that,” he declared.

“Pym, quit ogling my haunches, will ye?” Pabodie shot back, to the general amusement of the party.

“Silence! Please!” bellowed Dyer as the assembled men laughed and began to chatter. “Is this a conclave of gentlemen, or a fraternity party?”

“Fraternity party, would be my guess,” whispered Pabodie. Carlos cracked a smile and listened to the bitter, lonely wind outside. 

“What are we gonna do about the radio man?” demanded Lake. “He’s obviously working for those devils from Copenhagen! They mean to scoop my findings!”

“You don’t have any findings to scoop,” Pabodie told him.

“That’s my point!” said Lake. “We’ve got to get moving. We need to get to the site up to the west with all alacrity!”

“Carlos, what is the state of our aeroplane equipment?” asked Dyer, as Danforth looked insulted.

Carlos tried not to appear nervous when every head turned towards him. “Um. The transport is ready to fly, but the light aircraft has sustained some damage.”

“Can you repair it?”

Carlos looked at Gedney, who nodded. “Yes, but it will take a couple days….”

“Then I’ll take the transport,” said Lake.

“You’re not going off half-cocked with my drill,” said Pabodie.

“And you’re not going out on expedition with a fractured ankle, Mr. Pabodie,” said Dyer.

“I’ll be there,” Carlos assured Pabodie.

“You’ll be here, effecting repairs upon the light aircraft,” Dyer told Carlos. “Take Gedney,” he told Lake, waving a dismissive hand. “He knows how to drive a dog team. You will establish a forward camp and make some observations for no more than a fortnight. At which point, we will regroup, and, as we will have established a proper base camp by then, we will forge more permanent plans.

 

Carlos stumbled back into the shelter to find it deserted. Gedney had helped him make a list of repairs for the light aircraft before he had taken off with Lake's crew.

He had begun working on the plane, though he was feeling dejected. To come all this way, only to be considered some kind of maintenance man? He had consulted Dyer after the big meeting, but the professor had only snorted and told him to get to work. He had wanted to talk to Pabodie, but found the gruff redhead busy getting the parts of his core sample drill assembled.

He threw off his gloves and sat down next to the heater, warming his hands. 

The wireless, as if of its own volition, crackled to life. Carlos went over and donned the headphones. “Erebus Base, this is Erebus base,” he said. “Over.”

There was nothing but static. But then, just as he was about to move away, a ghostly voice came over the airwaves.

_“We've been waiting for you, Carlos.”_

“Hello? Hello?”

But then the radio went dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos embarks on a rescue mission and discovers an ancient city nestled at the foot of an Antarctic mountain range.

_“...and remember, if you see a hooded figure passing by, please, by all means, do not speak to him or her. It only aggravates them. The hooded figures probably will not harm you in any way, but they will suck out your immortal soul, which some people do find disconcerting. Remember this little rhyme: hooded figure, pass ‘em by; bird of prey, let ‘em fly; pentacle-symmetry elder god, run for your life, perhaps tossing small children and superfluous household pets into its path._

_“And on that topic, citizens often stop me on the streets of our fine community and ask questions like, ‘Cecil, can you tell us why the penguins are moping today?’ or ‘Cecil, is my hair still on fire?’ or ‘Cecil, can you please stop that high-pitched whine from ringing and ringing and ringing?’ I would like to tell you now, I value these questions. Though sometimes, there are no answers to your questions. And other times, no questions to your answers. It’s all so terribly sloppy._

_“Listeners, it has come to our attention that the hardy explorers visiting our fair community have constructed a camp, nestled right smack in the midst of our own foothills. Yes, in fact, I've just gotten word that the camp located directly over an ancient burial ground used by the Elder Gods. Oh, that’s going to work out well now, isn’t it?”_

 

“Cecil is one sassy fooker, ain’t he?” mused Pabodie, who was sitting with his injured leg propped up, sipping at a mug of something Carlos suspected wasn't 100% coffee, and listening to the radio broadcast along with Carlos.

Carlos continued to hunch over the plans for his light aircraft, which were spread out all over the table. His hands were raw from working outside. He had come inside for a breather, and he was not in the best of moods. “Can we turn that off? Trying to concentrate.”

“I find I quite enjoy it,” said Pabodie as the radio continued to murmur with Cecil's odd bits of news.

Carlos only grunted.

“And how are the repairs going?”

“Well as could be expected.”

Pabodie leaned over and clicked off the wireless. “All right, boy, are you going to tell me what's got you in a blue funk?”

“Prof. Lake didn't pick me for the research team! I should be at Erebus camp instead of wasting my time here.”

Pabodie clutched his belly and chuckled. “That great arse, Lake? You don't even like the man.”

“They brought me along as … as a workman!” 

“And what's wrong with working for a living? It's what your Papa did. And your brother.”

“Ernesto is my cousin.” Carlos suddenly felt like a sulking eight year old. 

“Don't you think, given the choice, that your cousin would swap places with you? Or Gedney?”

Carlos sulked, but then felt bad about sulking, which just make him sulk harder.

Pabodie was leaning over, speaking softly. “Gedney is one of the smartest folks I've worked with. As are you, Carlos. But as bad as it's been for you, and I don't doubt it, do you think they'd let _that_ lad walk the hallowed halls of Miskatonic? Lord knows, I get enough guff from that lot having him as my assistant.”

Carlos sat and rubbed his raw hands together, but the anger that had been bubbling under in the days since Lake's group decamped over the mountains seemed to have spent itself. He looked up, startled, as Pabodie grabbed his hands. At some point, the engineer had risen and limped over to where Carlos had been sitting. “I got something you could put on those hands. You think she'll be ready to fly?”

Carlos nodded. 

“Then get our Beechcraft ready. I got a feeling in my gut something is coming up.” 

“You should keep off that ankle,” Carlos said quietly. 

“Eh,” grumbled Pabodie, who was limping away to rummage around in one of the medical kits. “Lake took that rascal Pym along to Erebus camp, so I'm no longer in danger of turning into journalist feed.” He fished out a jar, and tossed it over to Carlos. Carlos unscrewed the lid, and began to rub the cream on his raw hands.

The two-way radio buzzed to life. _“Erebus camp to Base. Erebus camp to Base!”_

Carlos huriedly set down the jar and leapt over to the radio set. He leaned over and spoke into the microphone. “This is Base. Over.”

_“It's five-sided! Five-sided symmetry! Remarkable!”_

Carlos frowned over at Pabodie, who threw up his hands. “Erebus Camp, I didn't read you. Over.”

_“Our discovery! We're not sure if they're plants or animals. Eleven, twelve foot tall! They would have been giants!”_

“Erebus Camp, this is Base. Danforth? What was eleven feet tall? Over.”

_“The specimens! They were in the cavern. We managed to bring up a couple. They're defrosting in the sun.”_

Carlos felt a hand on his shoulder. “I told you, lad,” said Pabodie. “Something is coming.”

The report from Lake's encampment was startling. After a bit more incoherent babble, Carlos had streaked out of the shack to gather up Dyer and the others, and their correspondent, Danforth, had finally calmed down enough to give them a more coherent narrative. The party had evidently been drilling for core samples when they had burst unawares into some kind of deep underground cavern. There were fossils aplenty: enough to keep any party of scientists going for years it sounded like. 

But then they had happened upon what Lake was calling “the Old Ones.” Pabodie had later explained that it was a kind of joke based on Danforth's fannish attachment to the _Necronomicom_. What precisely they were nobody was quite certain. The appeared to be some kind of prehistoric Echinoderms, as they had the radial symmetry characteristic of that phylum. But they had grown to monstrous size, and also sported appendages that appeared to be legs, as well as primitive eyes. 

The glacial freeze had preserved several of the specimens, a few of which Lake had managed to pull to the surface, only to find that their skin proved too tough for his dissection tools. Pabodie had muttered, “They damn well better not use my drill,” at the same point that Dyer had confessed they were contemplating jury-rigging Pabodie's beloved piece of equipment in just that manner.

“You best not go along with them, Gedney!' Pabodie had boomed while Dyer waved for silence.

_“Mr. Gedney is no longer here,”_ said Lake over the wireless.

Pabodie looked shocked. “Well, what's that about?”

_“Oh, in the all the commotion, I completely forgot to mention this: there's a light blinking from the mountains.”_

“We can't see it from this side.”

_“No. There's another mountain range beyond. To the west. Looks to be high: as high as the Himalayas! Our camp is in the foothills of the range. At any rate, there seemed to be a red light, blinking from atop, so we sent up a party, men and dogs, to go take a look.”_

“You've … discovered a new mountain range?” said Dyer, who happened to be a geologist.

“ _Yes, what luck!”_

The moment the transmission concluded, Dyer had turned to Carlos.

“The light aeroplane: is she ready to fly?”

“With a few more minor repairs, yes,” said Carlos.

Dyer glared. “Then make them. We fly tomorrow.” And thereupon he stormed out of the room.

Pabodie winked at Carlos. 

 

The Old One sat rotting in the sun.

Carlos wound his scarf tighter around his face and listened to the dogs howling. He didn't blame them for being upset. The smell of putrefaction was nauseating, but Lake seemed blithely unaffected by it all. They all stood in the shadow of the great unknown mountain range as he chattered away about pentamerism and how the Danish researchers he considered his bitter rivals would never be able to top this find.

All Carlos could think was that the things were dead and should have stayed buried. Dyer, to his surprise, had actually tried to convince Lake to transport the bodies back into the cavern, “for preservation.” He was also annoyed that, true to Lake's word, and in Gedney's absence, they had begun outfitting Pabodie's drill with a kind of circular saw, so turning it into a sort of improvised Dremel. 

Carlos found himself more intrigued by the newly discovered mountain range looming overhead, and the blinking light several men swore they had seen each evening, or in what would have been the evening had it not been in the middle of the insane Antarctic summer season. Every night, they claimed, from around 9 pm to midnight, you could espy it up there. It was about the time of Cecil's nightly broadcast, Carlos mused, wondering what their mysterious friend would think about it all. Hadn't he called this area a graveyard? 

Something tapped him on the shoulder, and he jerked around. But it was only the wind. 

“Wind's picking up,” said Dyer. 

“We'll need to secure everything for the day,” Prof. Atwood chimed in. “There's a storm coming.” Carlos wasn't entirely certain why the physicist had come along on this, but he served as a sort of _ad hoc_ meteorologist. 

“The party that went to the mountain,” said Carlos. “Gedney, and the others....”

“They'll be fine,” snapped Dyer. “Meantime, we've got work to do.”

Lake seemed to regret it, but was persuaded to splay a weighted tarp over his stinking samples, and then the men scattered to secure equipment for the night. 

Carlos dashed for his aeroplane, intent on creating an improvised barrier of piled snow to shield it from the worst of the storm. The Beechcraft biplane was one of the finest things he'd ever flown, and now that it was in good repair he intended to keep it that way. He nearly ran into Pym, who was standing, staring up at the mountains. 

“Pym,” muttered Carlos. He was going to run on, as time as short, but lingered for some reason.

At length, Pym turned towards Carlos, but appeared to be staring right through him. “They don’t know what they’ve awakened. But they’ll find out. They’ll find out soon enough.”

Carlos stifled a shiver: he wasn’t certain if it was from the cold, or from the strange little man’s portentous words, but he nodded, and hurried along to tend to his aircraft.

When finally they finished their work, Carlos at last climbed into his sleeping bag, cold and exhausted. But he did not fall asleep immediately. The wind had already begun to pick up outside, and he sat listening to it, wishing for some reason that he could hear that now familiar voice, chatting about all of the odd happenings in his town. He grabbed his bag and pulled out the paperback Ernesto had stuffed into his luggage: the one with the lurid cover of the tentacled thing menacing the busty blonde. Grinning fondly, he began to read.

He soon fell into restless dreams of strange, barrel-shaped beings moving silently through the night.

 

He awoke suddenly to a terrible commotion. He pulled his boots on and stumbled out of his tent, blinking sleep and ice from his eyes, squinting in the clear sun of the weird Antarctic morning.

Dogs were howling and barking, and men were rushing everywhere. He assumed the wind had done some damage, and thought to rush over to check his aeroplane. But he came to a halt near where Dyer and Lake were standing, Lake a picture of fury. 

“They’ve stolen them! They’ve stolen my samples!” Lake was cursing. Even in the bitter cold, he was only half dressed, his face red.

“Lake, they blew away,” Dyer retorted, his face no less flushed. 

“Nefarious bastards. They’ve absconded with my life’s work.”

“No one has stolen your samples. Lake, be reasonable!”

“They’ve were blown away by the strong winds last night, Lake,” Atwood interjected. “My meters show record wind speed-“

“Fools! You’ve always been jealous of my work!” stormed Lake. And then he leapt at a very surprised Atwood, tackling him and bringing him down into the snow.

Carlos’s boxer’s instinct kicked in immediately, and he was pulling the crazed professor off of his colleague almost before they hit the ground. He held him, his arms pinned to his side.

“Lake, you’re mad!” Dyer fumed, somewhat unnecessarily, as Carlos held him back.

“Unhand me, you lower class cretin!” Lake spat at Carlos, who did not loosen his grip.

“Lake, that was most ungentlemanly!” Dyer scolded, as a shaken Atwood brushed himself off. 

Lake suddenly produced the most unearthly howl and broke free of Carlos. He pivoted and swung wildly at him. Carlos ducked, and then dropped the unhinged professor with one swift punch to the jaw.

“Enough!” barked Dyer. “Are we a group of savages?”

“Evidently,” grumbled Carlos, clenching his fists, and sadly aware that he had just decked a member of his dissertation committee.

There was a sudden commotion at the edge of the camp: men shouting and many dogs barking. “Come along,” fumed Dyer, who now helped a shaky Lake to his feet and dragged him off.

Atwood paused one second, patting Carlos on the shoulder. “Good job,” he whispered. And then he hurried off after Dyer and Lake. Carlos went after them. A small contingent of men had entered the camp on dog sledges.

Danforth was at the head of the party, ripping off his hood, his eyes wide and crazed. “Did you see them? They were terrible!”

“Did we see what, man? Speak sensibly,” snapped Dyer.

“Prof. Dyer?” said Danforth, eyes still lacking focus.

“Of course it’s me,” sighed Dyer, who seemed at the end of his rope after the events of that morning. “What did you see?”

“Where is Gedney?” asked Carlos, who had been searching fruitlessly for his friend among the returned men. “He went out with you as well, didn’t he?”

Danforth had started flailing, waving his arms up and down. “We were separated in the storm. And then they came! They must have been fifteen, twenty foot tall! Marching through the snow, they were.”

“Danforth, pull yourself together, or I’ll have Carlos knock some sense into you.”

Carlos tried to keep himself from grinning. Still and all, it wasn't like the stuffy professor to rage like this. Something was very amiss in the camp this morning, and it was beginning to worry him. 

“It's the Old Ones,” say Pym. All heads turned. Carlos didn't remember the melancholy little man even being there. “That's what you saw. And woe betide all of us.” Danforth went pale.

“Nonsense,” said Dyer. “What's gotten into all of you? We're suppose to be scientists, men of reason! We can't go telling fairy stories about … escaped vegetables, or whatever the blazes those things mad were supposed to be.”

“There's more of them! Down in the cavern!” Lake insisted. 

“God help us,” said Danforth.

“All right, Lake,” said Dyer. “Then get some men, and pull out a couple more of your samples, we'll pack them and transport them back to base camp.”

This appeared to satisfy Lake, and he trudged off through the snow.

“What about Gedney?” Carlos asked Dyer. “He's out there somewhere.”

Dyer clasped Carlos's shoulder. “Take your light aircraft and make a pass over the area. He can't have gone far.”

“They were making for the pass,” Atwood told him, pointing upwards. “That's where we've been seeing that light.”

Carlos nodded, staring up at the dark mountain range, wondering what variety of madness lay on the other side. Dyer had told him it was higher than the Himalayas. His thoughts strayed. Was Cecil up there somewhere, maybe crouched in a cave, huddled over a wireless device? 

He dismissed such speculations from his mind, and went to the flat stretch where his aeroplane had been secured for the night. He was grateful that it had survived the stormy night in good shape. It was while he was circling around the craft, doing a visual inspection, that he saw it: an impression in the ice. He looked along to the side, and saw another and another like it, along the ice, and then disappearing into a wind-blown snow bank. It seemed to be a trail of footprints. But the markings were like to the paw of no animal he had ever seen before: possibly like no animal on earth.

He squatted down and put a hand inside the print at his feet. His entire outstretched hand fit comfortably in the oddly symmetrical track. It looked like a big starfish, five points going outwards. He straightened and looked back and forth along the trail. The thing would have been huge. He recalled Danforth’s mad ravings about the huge barrel-shaped creatures, and Lake’s missing samples.

No, it wasn’t possible.

Somewhere out there, amid the lonely mountains, Gedney was lost and alone. Carlos was going to find him. 

He climbed into his aircraft, a Beechcraft Staggerwing biplane. The seats were a soft leather: Carlos had never actually flown in something that felt so luxurious before, but one of the benefactors had evidently been generous with this project. It was beautiful to look at, and light and quick in the air, and he felt energized the moment the landing gear left the ground. 

Carlos had been going along on search and rescue missions almost his whole life, so he immediately fell into a search pattern once he reached the mountain, sweeping back and forth across the area, keeping his eye out for movement. On one low pass he spotted what he figured was the path Danforth’s group had taken up the mountain, so he paid careful attention to that area. 

As he was climbing higher and higher, his eyes were drawn to the narrow mountain pass. Although Danforth had told him the highest mountains in the range were over 30,000 feet, which would have been over the safe ceiling for his plane, the pass was much lower. Would Gedney have headed up that way? It was possible that he had gotten turned around in the confusion of the snowstorm and kept to the pass.

Wait.

Was that a light?

Carlos turned his aeroplane around, swearing that he had seen a flash of red in his peripheral vision. Would Gedney have taken along a flare gun, or something like that? He cursed himself for not asking, but the camp had been chaotic that morning. 

He circled around, gaining in elevation, and took a swing through the pass. Dark clouds loomed overhead, obscuring the mountaintops, but he could see the sunlight peeking through on the far side. He brought the plane through a cloud bank, and, breaking through, was momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight.

Carlos blinked, and gasped.

He kept his sweating hands on the controls, disbelieving what he was now seeing below him. The mountain pass opened up into another world, a riot of rich, vibrant color. In contrast to the stark ice-covered world on the eastern side of the mountains, this land was a crazy quilt of vegetation. And there was animal life as well: he had already spotted a flock of birds on the wing.

What the hell?

But that wasn’t the end of it. For nestled in the foothills of the great mountain range there was a weird, ancient city. He flew overhead, tipping a wing tip of his biplane to get a better view. It covered acres. Many of the now crumbling structures appeared to have been carved directly out of the mountain itself. The great stone edifices and broad avenues were curious in that there seemed to be almost no right angles here. Indeed, everything seemed to reflect that same odd five-sided symmetry Lake had discovered in his hideous corpses of the Old Ones.

Carlos decided that he needed to land. It was not so much his curiosity, which was intense, but the fact that he felt it was possible Gedney had happened upon this place and retreated here for shelter. He turned on his radio, trying to open a free channel. 

“Beechcraft to Erebus camp. Beechcraft to Erebus camp. This is Beechcraft. Over.”

But he heard nothing but static in return. He wondered if his radio transmissions were being blocked by the high mountain range. 

He turned his dial, and, to his surprise, he came upon a familiar broadcast.

“Let my voice wash over you. You are safe now. Welcome, traveler from afar. Welcome to Night Valhal-La.”

And then, nothing but static.

There was a suitable flat area to land his plane just to the west of the town. Carlos put the aeroplane down, and then threw some items in his pack for his trek into town. He grabbed a pistol, as he had seen some movement within the city from the air, and worried that animals were now using the old buildings for dens. When he opened the door and stepped outside he was amazed to find he had no need for his heavy fur coat, as it was as warm here as a fine spring day in Arkham. He wished for a moment he had brought Atwood along, to explain the bizarre microclimate hereabouts. 

He left the coat inside the plane and headed for town. There were birds chirping around him, and he spotted what he thought were some kind of deer along the path. They must have seen him too, as they bounded away before he could get close enough to identify them more positively. He searched his memory, trying to remember whether reindeer or the like had ever been discovered at this latitude. Certainly when he got back to camp Dyer would have more to be jealous about than just Lake’s findings.

Just outside of town, in sight of one of the strange, star-shaped buildings, he paused. He was seeing movement. But it was not animal.

He crept into the shadow of a crumbling edifice, once again disbelieving what he was seeing. He pulled the pack off his back and fumbled inside, reaching for the gun.

“Hello there!”

Carlos jerked around, arm still plunged deep into the backpack. There were two men standing there, smiling at him. Humans. Or so it seemed. “Uh, hello?”

“You must be Carlos!” said a potbellied man with a luxurious mustache. Carlos noticed he was carrying a very large pair of shears.

“He must be, his hair is perfect!” said the other man, who was holding a pitchfork He was dressed in overalls and chewing on a blade of grass.

“Yes,” said Carlos, looking nervously between them. “I'm Carlos.”

“I wouldn’t say it was _perfect_ ,” muttered the first man, who was snipping the air with his shears. “Could stand a trim!”

“Aw, come off it, Telly,” the second man told him. “Cecil said you were coming,” he said to Carlos, extending a hand. “I’m John Peters. You know, the farmer?”

“Uh, hi,” said Carlos.

“And this is Telly. He’s a barber.”

“You could use an appointment, Carlos,” said Telly. “You can find my barber shop by the striped poll!” He pointed off down the street. Carlos spied a rotating candy-striped pole down there. Oddly enough, it wasn’t round, but appeared to be five-sided.

Carlos withdrew his hand from his pack to shake with John and Telly. It was a really weird situation, but they seemed friendly enough. “John and Telly, I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a friend.”

“Oh, everyone needs a friend,” said John Peters. “Have you tried joining a club? We have a bowling team!”

Carlos briefly wondered if the bowling balls here were some off variation of a pentagram. And then he started envisioning a bowling alley configured with radial symmetry, and began to get confused. “Uh, no. I mean, there was a man from our party.”

“The scientists?” asked John as Telly also leaned closer. They both looked terribly intrigued.

“Yes, our party of scientists. He was exploring the mountain pass, but became separated from the group, and he hasn’t returned to camp.” Carlos searched their faces. “Is it possible he came through here?”

“Anything is possible!” said John, not too helpfully.

“He should probably ask the City Council,” whispered Telly, twisting the end of his mustache, and snipping the air with this clippers. 

“Yes, it would be a matter for them!” said John. “Come on, Carlos. They’re holding a session right now.”

“Wish I could join you,” said Telly, wistfully. “But I’ll be down by my pole. Come visit! We’ll get that hair taken care of.”

Carlos followed John down the street. They started to encounter more and more citizens of Night Valhal-La as they proceeded through the maze of passageways between the many oddly-shaped structures. Some buildings were at least as high as the skyscrapers he had seen in New York City, and others along the way seemed to extend underground to unknown depths, as he glimpsed a few lighted tunnels into the mountain along their circuitous route. Just when Carlos thought they had circled around to where they had started, they came upon the biggest building of all. It was shaped as a ten-pointed star, and was at least a good ten stories high. There were vast stone archways at the entrances on every side, and people were pouring inside. Carlos and John followed the crowd, milling into a high-ceilinged lobby area. There were strange hieroglyphics all along the walls. Carlos stopped and contemplated them. They were primitive, little more than pictographs, and depicted the life of some strange beings of more than a passing resemblance to Lake’s Old Ones. Were these weird creatures involved in the construction of this structure, and indeed the entire city? It seemed inconceivable.

He looked around and realized that John Peters had disappeared into the crowd somewhere. So he followed the rest of the townspeople into the auditorium area. There were finely-upholstered seats on raised tiers set in a semicircle, and a stage down below. It seemed a rather large venue for a City Council meeting, but Carlos thought perhaps he had misunderstood. The auditorium was huge, with room for thousands, although he would estimate only a few hundred people actually filled the seats.

The lights began flashing, so Carlos found an empty seat just as the lights dimmed.

A single spotlight shown down on the group of people who had silently filed onstage. They were dressed in robes, and Carlos guessed they must have been elderly or infirm, as all of them carried canes.

One of the members came up to stand before a microphone. He tapped it a couple of times, and feedback squealed.

And then music cued up, and the City Council member began to sing.

_In olden days Old One kept watching_   
_To pick out what things we’re botching_   
_If you don’t a straight line hoe_   
_Elder Gods know._

_Shaman used to invoke our wishes_   
_To the ones shaped like starfishes_  
 _But now oh woe_  
 _Elder gods know._

_Penguins fly today_   
_And spiders weave today_   
_And the day’s long today_   
_And we grieve the day_   
_When we leave the day_   
_That we conjured abominations to and fro_   
_Elder Gods knows!_

The rest of the Council, meanwhile, performed a jaunty tap routine, tapping their canes and waving their straw boaters.

_Lesser folks outside Valhal-La_   
_May study the sacred Kabbalah_   
_But oh no_   
_Elder gods know._

_Cthulhu likes to keep his tentacles_   
_Wrapped in our sacred pentacles_   
_So hear me, Joe_   
_Elder gods know._

There followed thunderous applause, as the Council all took their seats. “Is there any new business?” asked the lead singer, who was now holding a gavel. The room was silent. “Any old business?” He looked around again to silence. He raised his gavel. “Well then-“

“I have some business!” shouted Carlos, who had leapt out of his seat. He cringed as every head turned towards him.

The lead singer was shielding his eyes, peering up at him. “You’re Carlos the scientist?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Yes, you have very straight teeth,” said the City Council member. The others began to murmur their agreement.

“What? Anyway, my friend-“

“Is this new business?” asked one of the City Council members.

“Well, I guess so,” said Carlos.

“It can’t be _new_ business,” said another City Councilman. “Cecil already told us he was coming.”

“But my friend-“ Cecil protested.

“So it’s old business,” said the first City Councilman. 

“How long have you been here, Carlos?” asked a City Councilwoman.

“Um, just a couple of hours.”

“Well, then it’s not old business either,” she remarked.

“Well, no new business and no old business, so I guess we’ll adjourn!” said the lead Councilman, banging his gavel.

“Wait!” shouted Carlos, but to no avail. The City Council shuffled out, and, as the house lights came up, the townspeople began to mill out as well.

“Damn,” he muttered. He felt a large hand on his shoulder.

“Carlos!” boomed the biggest man he had ever seen. 

“Yes,” sighed Carlos, who was getting quite frustrated.

“Cecil told us you were coming.” The big man leaned over and, to Carlos’s dismay, sniffed him. “Ah, yes, you do smell of lavender. Come, you look hungry. I’m Big Rico, and I run the best pizza place in Night Valhal-La! Well, it’s also the only pizza joint in town.”

Carlos decided to accompany the man, partly because he was out of ideas, but mostly because Big Rico had a mammoth hand wrapped around his arm and was pretty much dragging him away. Once more he was led through a maze of pathways, overpasses and tunnels, Big Rico often having to stoop over so he could pass through the doorways. 

“So, science: is it a good racket?” asked Big Rico at one point.

“Racket? Well, I’ve never thought of it that way. But, yes, I enjoy it.”

“I got a laboratory.”

“You have … what?”

“I got a lab. Right in back of my pizza place. You oughta check it out, being a scientist and all.”

“Well, I guess I will.” Carlos wondered what they would consider a scientific laboratory in these parts. They had reached the restaurant, which had a blinking Big Rico’s neon sign out front. Carlos could smell the food cooking, and his stomach growled at the scent of melted cheese and spices. He realized he hadn’t gotten any breakfast that day, and was a little hungry.

Rico grinned. One of his front teeth was gold, and glinted in the sun. He put a large paw on the front door and wrenched it open. “Ah. What you need is a special! I’ll get that right up for you.”

Carlos paused at the doorway. “I’m sorry, I just realized, I’m not carrying any money.” In fact, he had no idea what kind of currency they might accept here.

“On the house! It’s not every day we have an important visitor,” said Big Rico with a wink. He went back to the kitchens, and Carlos found himself a seat at an empty table. His day had been an odd mix so far. People seemed polite, but no one appeared terribly worried about a lost explorer. When the pizza arrived, Carlos found himself devouring first one and then a second slice without even much thinking about what kinds of meats had gone into the pepperoni.

“Soooo, Carlos, you’re a scientist?”

Licking his greasy fingers, Carlos looked up from his pizza to be confronted by a striking pair of violet-hued eyes blinking back at him. “Um, yes?”

The man leaned forward, chin in hands, staring openly. “I'm _very_ into science these days!” 

Carlos searched his memories. He didn’t recognize the slim, preternaturally pale man sitting across from him, but there was something very familiar about the voice. And then it hit him. “Cecil?”

The smile was quick and genuine, and actually quite charming. “Yes!” he said, the distinctive sonorous voice now radiating pure delight. He extended a long-fingered hand. “I’m Cecil. Some call me the voice of Night Vale, but I personally think that’s a bit rich.” 

Carlos stared for what was probably an uncomfortable amount of time. Cecil’s entire forearm, at least up to the extent of his rolled shirtsleeves, was covered with arcane markings. Tattoos, such as one might see on sailors. Carlos unconsciously reached up to scratch the still healing marking on his own shoulder. 

Cecil flicked his hand and Carlos, suddenly realizing his gaffe, reached over to shake. Cecil’s hand was cool, his skin soft as silk.

“Ah a firm handshake,” said Cecil. “That’s a good sign!”

“Look, you’re a broadcaster? Maybe you could help me. I’ve asked the City Council….”

Cecil made a dismissive gesture. “Aw, don’t ask them for anything. Gives them delusions of grandeur.”

“I’m looking for a colleague. A young man named Gedney.”

“Oh, yes, the intrepid young explorer with the dogsled.”

“You knew all about this?”

Cecil puffed his chest, raising an index figure. “It’s my job to know things. I am a broadcast journalist.”

“They were headed this way, up the pass, when Gedney became separated from the rest of the party. I think he may have come here, for shelter. But I got nowhere at the City Council meeting!”

Cecil waved a dismissive hand. His gestures were graceful and precise, like that of a dancer. “Oh, don’t ask the City Council things like that. It only feeds their egos.”

“Could you please help me?” Carlos pleaded. “Maybe make a mention of it on your radio program?”

“I can do better!” Cecil put his index finger and thumb in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, and quite suddenly, a fresh-faced youth was hovering expectantly over the table. “Intern Byrd, could you be a dear and check into Carlos’s lost friend? Probably vanished down a bottomless pit, or looked into the mouth of unspeakable horror.” Cecil looked to Carlos, sympathy in his eyes. “It happens!”

“Sure thing, Cecil!” said Byrd, who, true to his namesake, flitted off.

“Is that man … a servant?” Cecil asked of Byrd.

“Oh, of course not!” laughed Cecil. “It’s one of my interns. Now that that’s taken care of,” he said, starting to rise, “I’d say a tour of the town is in order!” Carlos's hypothesis regarding Cecil being a dancer received further confirmation, as the broadcaster stood straight-backed and slightly pigeon-toed. 

Cecil gestured for Carlos to follow. “By the way,” he said, taking a flustered Carlos by the arm, “I’ve been meaning to say, that’s a well-fitting shirt you have on there. Would look very good coming off. Oh!” Cecil rambled on as Carlos flushed. “That wasn’t what I meant to say. Sometimes, the things that go into my mouth!” Cecil laughed again. “Oh, dear, I meant of course the things that come _out of_ my mouth.”

“Oh. Uh.”

Cecil patted Carlos's arm. “Or the things that come in my mouth.” He arched a pale eyebrow. “But we can talk about that later!” 

Carlos felt his cheeks burning as they bustled outside, and it was not from the chill wind. Cecil was definitely a bit forward. They once again threaded through the town, though this time at a slower pace than before, Cecil pausing to point out interesting features of the town. For example, there was an underground tunnel leading out to near where Carlos's plane was parked. Carlos hadn't even seen the tunnel entrance, as it was quite overgrown. 

They walked back by the forbidden penguin park. Well, it was forbidden in theory at least – in reality there were several citizens hanging around, including some of the mysterious hooded figures Cecil had mentioned before on his radio program.

One of them passed close by, and Cecil hailed him. “Hey, Morty!”

“Hey, Cecil!” rasped the hooded figure.

“Working hard, or hardly working?” asked Cecil.

“Another day, another dollar,” said Morty the Hooded Figure. “Say, is this Carlos?”

“It is indeed.”

“Very strong jaw on that one!” said Morty, and with a wave, he was off on his mysterious errands.

Carlos noticed some of the hieroglyphics he'd spotted in the auditorium carved on the wall that bordered the penguin park. He pointed it out. “Cecil, can you tell me about this writing.”

“Well, it was before my time. I took Modified Sumerian in high school.”

“These creatures in these glyphs....”

“They did like to talk about themselves, didn't they? 'We have five arms, bully for us!'”

“So, they made the carvings themselves?”

“The carvings were made when the city was built,” Cecil said, somewhat elusively.

“So someone, or something, built the city?”

“What, did you think it just appeared out of nowhere? Magical thinking, a bit odd for a scientist.”

“Cecil-”

“But here we are at the radio station, and it's about time for my show. Are you ready for your interview?”

“My … what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on this chapter: The Beechcraft Staggerwing I have Carlos flying in this chapter is said to be one of the most beautiful planes ever built. And, yes, the name of the town is a little nod to Lost Horizon. Kind of a goulash of references on this one. And lastly, the City Council's little ditty was a take-off of Cole Porter's Anything Goes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos sits down for an interview, and offers his scientific expertise to some Night Valhal-La residents who've lost something important.

Carlos sat down in a fully equipped radio station. He would never in his wildest dreams have expected Cecil to be broadcasting from a place as nicely furnished as this. Along with the modern equipment there were troops of eager interns waiting to serve. Carlos refused Cecil's offer of food, as he had just eaten, so Cecil instead ordered up cookies and hot chocolate. The cocoa, when it arrived, appeared to be spiked with something a bit stronger than chocolate, but Carlos found he didn't much care.

“So, let's get down to business!” said Cecil, slapping a pair of headphones onto a slightly flustered Carlos. Before he could even ask if the microphone was live, Cecil had swung around and clicked a switch on his control panel. “Welcome to Night Valhal-La! Listeners, I have a special show today. As you know, we have some intrepid Arctic explorers now in our midst. And today is is my rare honor to speak with their strong-jawed leader, Carlos! Hello, Carlos!”

“Um, I'm not-” Carlos started, but thought the better of it. “Um. Hello, Cecil.”

“Carlos, I understand that you are looking for a friend.”

Carlos leaned forward, towards the microphone. “Yes, Gedney! He disappeared somewhere around the mountain pass-”

“Would you describe him as a _good_ friend?” Cecil interrupted.

“What?”

“A good friend?” Cecil was leaning forward, seemingly attending on Carlos’s every word.

“Well, yes. I suppose so.”

“As in, ‘Why no, we're just good friends?’” Cecil accompanied the inquiry with a chuckle and a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Huh? He's a colleague.”

Cecil perked up. “All right then. So, the question that's been burning on all our minds, are you married?”

“Uh, no.”

“Engaged? Seeing someone? Perhaps having a torrid affair?”

Carlos’s palms had begun to perspire. “What?”

“Which one? The engagement, or the torrid affair? You can tell me.”

Carlos looked around, trying to divine the unspoken jest. “None of them!” he finally answered.

“Well, good. And now, to more important matters.”

Carlos didn't comment, but only thought, _thank goodness_.

“Your hair.”

“Um...?”

“How do you get it so perfect? I mean, do you wake up, and it's like that, or do you have to take special care?”

Carlos put a hand in his hair, which had scandalized Dyer by growing to touch his collar. “It's just … nothing special.”

“Well, let's take some phone calls now.”

“You have … telephones?” Carlos asked lamely. Well, it made sense, if they had a radio program he reasoned, they probably had telephones. His grandmother back home didn’t even have one: they had to go downstairs and use a neighbor’s party line.

“Here's our first call, from Old Woman Josie! Hi, Josie!” Cecil cut the microphone and leaned close to Carlos. “She talks to angels,” he whispered.

_“Hello, Cecil,”_ came an aged voice. _“I have a question about Carlos.”_

“Well, that's convenient, because he's sitting right here!”

_“Is it true that he smells of lavender?”_

To Carlos's infinite distress, Cecil suddenly leaned over very close and took a healthy whiff. He grinned. “Oh, lovelier than lavender, I'd say. He smells of promises and rainbows!”

_“That's very nice,”_ said Josie. _“And so handsome!”_

“He’s perfect,” mooned Cecil. “And how are the angels today, dear?”

_“They're very good. They’re helping mow the scrub grass. They say hello.”_

Carlos had risen to his feet. He had grown supremely annoyed by the ludicrous interview, and he needed to get back to camp before it got too late. He pulled off the headphones and placed them on the board. “Cecil, I don't think-”

“Sooooo, Carlos the Scientist. What did you think of the _Old Ones_?”

Carlos was lost for words. He grabbed the headphones once more and sat down. “The Old Ones?”

Cecil steepled his hands, looking shrewd. “Yes, the ones your dreary Prof. Lake dredged up. Not terribly pleasant, are they?”

“You told me they built the city.”

Cecil brushed an imaginary dust speck from the sound board. “I didn't _exactly_ say that.”

“Well, then, who did?”

“Wellllll, if you want to get technical, it was the Shoggoths.”

“Shoggoths?”

“Yes, their slaves. Nasty stuff.”

“Nastier than the Old Ones?”

“They staged a rebellion at some point, and now even the Old Ones are petrified of them.”

“Are they still around? The Shoggoths?”

“There are a few here, deep underground. We leave them alone. Mostly they took off for Tundra Bluffs.”

“That other mountain range in the distance?”

“Yes, and I think we'd all say, _good riddance_.”

Finding Cecil in a chatty mood, Cecil searched his memories. “You had said before our Erebus camp had been erected over a graveyard. The Old Ones?”

“Yes. And you dug them up. Not a move I would have made, if I may editorialize a bit.”

Carlos thought about this one for a while. “But they were still alive, weren't they?”

“Well, you saw them for yourselves. I mean, who can tell, dead or alive? They smell equally bad, either way!”

Carlos's mind reeled. “There were others. Other bodies, down in the cavern. Dyer and Lake were going to pull them out.”

Cecil tilted his head, arching an eyebrow. “That's interesting.”

“Cecil?”

“Well, I hate to use this radio program as a platform for my personal views....”

“But?”

“Not something that I would necessarily see as a wise course. Just speaking as a disinterested observer.”

Carlos was at the microphone. “Dyer! Lake! If any of you can hear me, listen to me, don't do it. It's dangerous. Leave the Old Ones, and get out of there! Please!”

“Ah, an impassioned plea. That was very dramatic, Carlos. Thank you!” 

Carlos just nodded, hoping against hope that someone was listening, and that they would actually heed his warning.

“And here's a reminder, Night Valhal-La is squaring off against those weasels from Tundra Bluffs this evening. Go and cheer on our boys, because Tundra Bluffs is a bunch of nit-wits.” Cecil snapped off a switch on the sound board and removed his headphones. “That was aces!” he told Carlos. “You're going to be a snazzy addition to our little community.”

“I'm not staying,” said Carlos, who was already standing. He strode to the door of the recording booth and let himself out.

“But, you've hardly even got to know us,” said Cecil, who was following hot on his heels.

“Cecil, my camp is in danger! I need to go and help them.”

“You don't _like_ us?”

“I like you just fine Cecil.” Carlos had reached the door of the studio, one hand grasping the handle.

“Really?” Cecil slipped between Carlos and the door, batting his eyes. “You're not just shining me? Because, my heart is easily broken.” Cecil held his hands over his chest, and mimed the pump of a heart.

“I need to get back.” And with that, carefully stepping around the overwrought radio host, Carlos left the building, bustling out into the streets of Night Valhal-La.

“But, you can't fly in this weather!” Cecil called after him. “It's too dangerous!”

“What weather? There's not a cloud in the-”

Thunder crashed.

Carlos stood out in the middle of the suddenly pouring rain, glaring.

Cecil flicked open an umbrella, which for some reason he happened to have in his hand, and held it up over Carlos's head. 

“Looks like you'll have to spend the night. Come on, I'll give you a ride.”

Eyeing Cecil suspiciously, Carlos sighed and followed him around to the back of his studio. 

“Aw, come on, don't be sore, Carlos. We've set up a nice place for you above your laboratory.” They came around the corner, and Carlos was once again taken aback, for an old jalopy was parked there.

“You have _automobiles_ here?” asked Carlos.

“Well, of course. It's just a flivver, but it does the trick. Hop in!” Cecil fired up the engine. The car bucked and backfired a couple of times, and then finally lurched into gear, and they were off, Cecil hurtling down the narrow streets and byways at a reckless rate of speed. Several citizens were forced to leap out of the way, but no one seemed put off, and in fact, several picked themselves up out of the mud and happily yelled “Hi, Cecil!” after the car.

They finally came to a tire-squealing halt at a building out in back of Big Rico's. “Once you get settled, we can take in a quick dinner,” Cecil assured him.

Carlos peevishly refused Cecil's offered umbrella, so entered the structure dripping wet. He was cursing and shaking out his coat when Cecil flipped a light switch.

Carlos let out a breath.

It was row upon row of gleaming test tubes, graduated cylinders, beakers, bunsen burners, centrifuges and microscopes. There was an entire pantry full of reagents and solutions, everything clearly labeled. There were sinks for washing and tubes that blew gas and oxygen. There were fume hoods and a spectrophotometer and a calorimeter and a gas chromatograph. 

“This is- This is-” Carlos lacked for words. He turned, and Cecil was there, holding up a lab coat. 

“I hope this fits!” said Cecil, his eyes shining. 

Despite his annoyance at being dripping wet, in addition being trapped in Night Valhal-La for the night, Carlos decided it would be polite to try on the coat, especially since Cecil seemed so eager. In fact, it fit perfectly, almost as if it had been made especially for him. Which, he suspected, it had.

Cecil immediately began fussing with Carlos's lapels. “Well, that seems to be serviceable,” he said, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust.

“It's perfect, Cecil.” Carlos looked around. “This is all really amazing.”

“It's for you.”

“It can't be all for me.”

“Why not? We've been waiting for you!”

Carlos found he was too tired to argue. At Cecil's urging, he headed upstairs, where he found he second floor had been converted to a cozy living area. He set his bag down on the bed, and then sat down beside it for a moment, head in hands, suddenly missing his grandmother and his cousin. He missed Pabodie and Gedney and even Dyer and Danforth and the rest. He wondered for a moment if he would ever see them again, but then told himself to buck up and stop moping. He went to the sink and washed his face, and then ventured back downstairs, where Cecil was eagerly awaiting him. He started to remove his lab coat, but Cecil wouldn't hear of it, insisting, “They'll all want to see!”

Cecil took Carlos's elbow and marched him over to Big Rico's, where for some reason someone had now laid out a red carpet under a large awning, and, despite the weather, several townspeople had gathered around. “Is there some event here tonight?” Carlos whispered.

“There is indeed!” said Cecil. 

“Carlos!” shouted one of the citizens. And then there was a lot of waving and yelling, and someone stuck a piece of paper and a pen at Carlos.

“Sorry?” asked Carlos.

“Autograph,” Cecil whispered. 

Carlos signed the paper, and the person who had offered it, a teenaged girl, jumped up and down and emitted a shriek. She ran over to show it to her friends, and they all squealed, hopping up and down in excitement.

“Carlos! Over here!” A flashbulb went off in Carlos's eyes, dazzling him for a moment. “Leann Hart, _Night Valhal-La Daily Journal_. Do you have any comments for our readers, Carlos?”

“Uh, the laboratory is … very nice?”

There were more shouts and more flashbulbs, and more papers shoved his way. Carlos was not quite certain where someone had gotten a very nice 8 x 10 glossy head shot, but signed it anyway. At last, Cecil tugged his elbow, hurrying Carlos inside Big Rico's. “Leann and her print journalism,” Cecil muttered, shaking his head. “It's on its way out of course.”

“Hello, Cecil. Carlos,” said a voice, and for a moment, Carlos wondered why Big Rico was wearing women's clothing. 

“This is Mrs. Big Rico,” said Cecil.

“Oh, er, pleased to meet you, Mrs, er, Big.”

“Pleasure,” rasped Mrs. Big Rico. She really did resemble her husband, even down to the mustache, although her voice was a tad lower. “Come right dis way,” she told them, lumbering off to a somewhat secluded table in the back.

“Now,” said Cecil, opening the dinner menu once they were alone again. “What would we like?”

“I haven't brought any money,” Carlos told him.

Cecil leaned over, patting Carlos's hand reassuringly. “Don't worry, baby. It's my treat.” 

Carlos left his menu untouched. “I'm sorry. Cecil, this feels like....”

“A date?” asked Cecil hopefully. Carlos frowned. “Oh, no no no no no,” said Cecil. “Um, unless you want it to be?” 

Just at that moment, and before Carlos could form his answer, Big Rico himself approached the table. “Well, look at you two kids, out for a night on the town!”

Carlos looked between Big Rico and Cecil. 

“What'll it be?” asked Rico.

“I'll just have my usual,” said Cecil.

Carlos opened his menu and scanned through for something recognizable. Kudzu salad? Boiled platypus innards? Yak rump à la king? “Uhh. Do you have anything like … an omelet?” he tried.

“Omelet?” rumbled Big Rico?

“Well, yes. Like a nice three egg omelet.”

Big Rico raised a bushy eyebrow. “I don't know if you could finish a whole three eggs.”

“Perhaps our guest is hungry?” said Cecil. “Celebrity takes it out of you!”

“What if I bring you one egg to start with?” the restaurateur asked Carlos.

“Sure,” said Carlos, thinking maybe they were short on provisions. He only wanted to be polite. Big Rico collected the menus and hurried off. His wife was soon back with two glasses of brandy.

“Armagnac,” said Cecil. “I think you will find it amusing.”

Carlos took a generous gulp of his. He found he needed a drink. “Cecil, how did you know I was coming?”

“Well of course you were coming. We've needed a scientist here for so long. Because, you know, _science_ , right?”

Well, that made as much sense as anything.

Mrs. Big Rico was back with two steaming platters. She placed a broiled portabello swimming in some kind of red sauce in front of Cecil. And then, for Carlos, there was a fried egg, sunny side up, approximately the size of one of the hubcaps on Cecil’s flivver.

“That's … an egg?” asked Carlos, staring at the giant thing, which was actually overhanging the serving platter.

“You should see da chicken,” rasped Mrs. Big.

Carlos looked down at the acres and acres of egg staring back at him. “Hot sauce?” he asked.

Mrs. Big handed him a bottle, and then tromped off.

Carlos shook red lashes of hot sauce onto his single, mammoth egg while Cecil cut off a delicate bite of mushroom. “Mmm, bloody, the way I like it,” said Cecil. “How's the egg?”

Carlos stared at Cecil for a moment, but then decided, from what he'd seen of the menu, bloody mushrooms were probably right there beside the somewhat melted geodes. “It's, um, enough for my whole family for a week.”

“You don't like it?” asked Cecil, eyes wide, a bit of mushroom poised on the end of his fork.

“Oh, no, no, it's wonderful.” To prove his point, Carlos crammed a large dollop of egg into his mouth. Actually, it was quite good. But he also managed to swallow a bolus of hot sauce, and ended up coughing. He grabbed his drink and downed it. 

Big Rico was by at just that moment and refilled their glasses. “Everything OK?” he inquired.

“Aces,” coughed Carlos.

“It's so good to have a scientist here with us at last!” said Big Rico, before once again disappearing.

Carlos bathed his throat in more alcohol because, well, what the hell? “Why do you fellows need a scientist?”

“Well, why does anybody need a scientist, really?” Cecil swirled his brandy and cocked his head. “We're really no different from any small town anywhere else in the world I suppose. Well, maybe except for the shoggoths, and occasional attacks of flesh-eating fungus. But other than that!”

“Flesh-eating fungus?” asked Carlos. The egg was actually quite good, but the brandy was better. “By the way, have you heard from that intern, Byrd? The one you sent to look for Gedney?”

“Oh, yes, he disappeared.”

“What?”

Cecil waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, it happens a lot with interns. Probably stumbled into a fissure in the crust of the earth, or got sucked into another dimension.”

“Can you locate him?”

“I wouldn't worry. I've sent Intern Shackleton to look for him.” He flipped open his menu, dabbing his chin with a cloth napkin. “Would you care for dessert? They have a really lovely imaginary ice cream tart here!”

“Maybe just coffee?” Carlos stopped to wonder how many glasses of brandy he had tossed back. His head was swimming. “I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

'Yes, lots to do!” said Cecil.

“I need to get going back to my camp.”

But Cecil was looking at something on the wall behind Carlos. “We could watch the moonrise!”

Carlos was still feeling a little muzzy when they left Big Rico's. The crowd had gone, thankfully, and the sky had cleared. The sky was full of stars. Cecil strolled over to where his car was parked and hopped up to sit on the trunk. Carlos leaned on the fender beside him. 

Cecil pointed up to the sky. “I like watching the great void.”

The moon was cresting the horizon, and they sat and watched until it had pulled even with the flashing Big Rico's sign. Cecil shifted, and Carlos looked down at where he was sitting beside him. Cecil's pale, long-fingered hand was placed there on the fender. Carlos gazed at the fine markings traced there on his skin, and felt an odd urge to clasp it in his own. He shook his head. That was silly. He was going to wake up tomorrow, bright and early, get to his plane, run another search for Gedney, and then hurry back to Erebus camp and warn them about the Old Ones.

“I need to get going,” said Carlos, standing up. He was still a little wobbly from the brandy.

“I'll walk you over,” Cecil offered. It was only a few paces to the laboratory door, but Carlos shrugged it off. It certainly wasn't the strangest thing that had happened today.

They paused by the threshold. “This is me,” Carlos said somewhat lamely as Cecil stood there looking expectant. 

“Uh-huh,” said Cecil.

“Well, good night,” said Carlos, finally thrusting out a hand to shake. 

Looking a little disappointed, Cecil grasped his hand. “See you tomorrow?”

Carlos only grunted in reply. He turned and entered the laboratory, making his way up to his temporary quarters to the sound of Cecil's dodgy car backfiring and then roaring off, where he would certainly almost run down some more pedestrians.

He tugged off his clothing and fell deeply asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He slept soundly, his dreams narrated by a sweet, comforting voice that enveloped him.

He was awakened early the next morning by the sound of a frantic knocking on his door. He pulled on some pants and hurried downstairs. “Cecil,” he muttered grumpily as he threw open the door. What nerve! He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet!

“You're Carlos the scientist?” asked the couple who stood there, neither of whom, it should be added, was Cecil.

“Uh, yes. Yes I am,” answered Carlos, who suddenly felt half naked because, basically, he _was_. Unfortunately, his clothing was all upstairs, so he grabbed his lab coat off a hook and wrapped it around himself like a bathrobe.

“Can you help us?” the man asked. “Our daughter has been taken!” 

The mother began to weep piteously. “I'm afraid we'll never see her again!” she wailed.

“Oh, uh. There, there,” said Carlos, awkwardly reaching out to pat her on the back. 

“Please! We know you’re a scientist. Could you assist us?” asked the father. “We'd be eternally grateful!”

“Well, um, I'll try. So, what exactly happened?” Carlos mind reeled to bottomless pits and fissures and alternate universes, all the things that Cecil had mentioned.

“She's been kidnapped by the penguins!”

“The … penguins?”

Carlos heard a car horn, “A-oo-ga!” It was Cecil, pulling up in his backfiring flivver.

“Oh, Cecil, you're here!” said the father, running towards the car.

“Carlos said he'll help us!” sobbed the mother.

“Uhhhhh,” said Carlos definitively.

“Hop in!” said Cecil, opening the door. “I'll give you all a ride!”

“Uh, I should probably get dressed...” Carlos muttered.

“Nonsense, it's a balmy day,” said Cecil, yanking him into the passenger seat while the parents piled into the back. “All strapped in?” he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, roared off, down street and alleyway, to the location of the forbidden penguin park.

They all hopped over the fence, Carlos feeling completely ridiculous, and approached a large, crumbling stone structure. This building was completely covered in the weird hieroglyphics Carlos had noted before on other structures in Night Valhal-La. Cecil told the parents to wait by the car while he and Carlos ventured inside. There was a circular ramp sloping downwards in a spiral pattern, and they proceeded downwards. Cecil had been telling the truth about one thing: it was a warm day, and it got warmer the further down they ventured. 

At the bottom of the ramp Cecil grabbed a torch from one of the sconces and gestured for Carlos to follow him. “Now, be sure and stay quiet,” he whispered. “We don't want to disturb them.”

Carlos was concentrating on the floor, being careful where he placed his bare feet, so he simply nodded and grunted, “Uh-huh.” 

“Carlos!” he heard Cecil whisper, as if in warning.

“Hrm?” But by then Carlos had bumped into a large, white stone column. A large, feathery stone column.

He looked up.

It was no column.

Emitting a small shriek, he stumbled backwards, and into Cecil's arms. Cecil covered Carlos's mouth and yanked him backwards.

“Cecil, what the fuck is that?” whispered Carlos, gesturing furiously at the eight foot tall monstrosity standing before them.

Cecil nodded towards it, and Carlos watched in horror as it turned around to face them. The monstrous thing was an enormous … penguin. And albino penguin, to be more precise. It stared at them with pure white eyes, and then waddled off. 

“Didn't it see us?”

“They're blind,” Cecil explained. “Been living underground for centuries. They eyes wasted away.” He narrowed his violet eyes. “I thought, as a scientist, you would realize this.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Let's get moving, shall we? The nesting ground is up ahead.” Carlos and Cecil crept ahead and peered around inside a wide open doorway. Cecil raised the torch, and Carlos beheld a nesting pair, tending to their young. The babies in this case were the size of the normal penguins Carlos had seen. They continued down the hallway, looking into another doorway, and then another.

“Over there!” said Carlos, pointing to the corner of one of the rooms. Indeed, these enormous penguin parents were tending to a human child, who didn't look amused at the prospect of being fed a live, still flapping fish.

Cecil and Carlos retreated back around a corner, where they spoke in hushed voices. “What should we do?” asked Cecil.

“Well, I don't know! Don't you have penguin herders or something?”

“No.”

“Can you....?” Carlos mimed a shotgun.

“No, we can't harm them in any way. We can't even upset them!”

“Why not?”

“These are the Elementary Penguins. They belong to the Old Ones.”

“The Old Ones live here?”

“What do you think dwells on the lower levels?” Cecil pointed to the floor, and for the first time, Carlos noticed the trail of five-sided footprints leading and down the hallway.

Carlos felt a shiver run down his spine. He grabbed the torch from Cecil and went back to the nesting room to have another look around. Cecil went along with him, standing on tiptoe to peer over Carlos's shoulder. 

Carlos hunkered down, chin in hand, thinking hard. Cecil crouched down next to him. “What is it?”

“Cecil, I'm a little fuzzy on my avian biology, but I have a hypothesis. I need tissue from both birds to confirm it, back at the lab.”

Cecil smiled and picked up a handful of feathers which had fallen the doorway. “Will these do?”

Carlos nodded, and they headed back to the car. The parents were very reassured when Cecil and Carlos told them their child was fine, and with a lurch, they were thundering back to the lab. While Cecil took the parents to Big Rico’s to wait, Carlos immediately began to slice the feathers to prepare them for examination. 

Cecil returned to find Carlos hunched over a microscope. “What have you discovered?”

“All of these cell samples from the feathers contain both X and Y chromosomes. I believe that both of the penguins in that nesting pair are male!”

“Oh, how interesting.”

“You see what that means?”

Cecil looked mystified. “One of them will have to puzzle out how to dance backwards?” he asked brightly.

“Cecil, they can't have an egg.”

Cecil straightened up, crossing his arms defiantly. “And why not? That isn't fair, is it?”

Carlos stood up as well, waving his hands. “No, Cecil. I mean, they can't biologically produce an egg of their own.”

“Oh.”

“I believe that may be why they've kidnapped the child!”

“Ohhhhh. Neat! You're sooo smart, Carlos.”

Carlos sighed. 

“So, what should we do?” asked Cecil.

Carlos stood and thought for a while. He could see the Big Rico's sign flashing on and off outside the window. “I have an idea!”

Cecil and Carlos returned to the penguin park, carrying an egg fresh from Big Rico's pantry. 

It was as big as a bowling ball. And nearly as heavy. 

“How big are the chickens here, anyway?” asked Carlos as he cradled the egg on his lap over in the passenger seat.

“They sometimes trample the cows.”

“And eight foot albino penguins,” said Carlos, shaking his head. This was indeed an intriguing part of the world.

“You should see the hummingbirds here.” Cecil screeched to a halt near the penguin park building. 

“I'll place this in the nest while you grab the child,” Carlos told Cecil as they once again ventured down the ramp. He paused upon hearing an odd sound, somewhere between a thump and a slither. “What's that?”

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Oh?”

“Probably just one of the Old One waking up and coming to take great vengeance on anyone who's been disturbing his Elementary Penguins.”

Carlos blanched. “We have to get down there. Hurry!”

They hastened down the ramp, quickly as they could with the large, heavy egg, and crept to the nesting grounds of the kidnappers. They found the child was being guarded by only one bird, which had, apparently, fallen asleep. “Penguins snore?” asked Carlos.

“I thought you knew these things, being a scientist,” said Cecil.

“Well, it's never come up. You give them the egg, I’ll get the child.”

Cecil nodded. Moving as silently as possible, and with the terrible step-slither, step-slither sound of the Old One growing ever louder and nearer, they approached the sleeping penguins.

The child woke up and sighed. As Cecil placed the egg on the floor, Carlos held a finger to his lips. The child was curled up beneath the feet of the towering penguin. Carlos gestured to Cecil, who nodded. On the count of one, two, three, Carlos grabbed the child just as Cecil pushed Big Rico's huge chicken egg in its place. The penguin shrugged, and Cecil and Carlos held their breath, but then it went back to snoring.

They tiptoed out of the nesting room, Carlos carrying the child in his arms, both looking back over their shoulders at the sleeping parent.

Unfortunately, they stumbled right into the _other_ father penguin, who had just come to the door bearing a large, flopping fish in its beak.

There was a short interval of silence.

And then the mammoth penguin began to flap its wings and shriek, _“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”_

The step-slither got louder, as other penguins also emerged and began to shriek. _“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”_

“Carlos?”

“Yes?”

“Run!”

And so they did, hastening out of the nesting area, down the hall and then the exhausting climb up and up and up the ramp, slick, cold stone beneath Carlos's still bare feet, as he hadn't even paused to put on shoes at the lab, he was still half naked underneath the lab coat.

And, for some ungodly reason, he was laughing.

They arrived at the car and Carlos somehow got in with the child in his lap, and after a couple of the loudest backfires he's ever heard, they plunged off into the city. Carlos held the tiny girl tightly to him, crying with laughter and relief. Cecil smiled as he maneuvered the car in front of Big Rico's, and then the parents were outside, grabbing their baby, and they were surrounded by other happy townspeople, but somehow Carlos knew Cecil's bright smile was just for him.

Just for him.

And then he heard it: a noise overhead overhead. Carlos peered up into the sky. The transport aeroplane was flying over the town. “Cecil! They've found us!” he exclaimed. “They must have heard your broadcast.”

Cecil was gazing up as well, his expression guarded.

“Come on! They must be landing nearby. Cecil?” Carlos's was already clutching the door handle of Cecil's car. Cecil, looking wistful, climbed in and started to drive, but slower, it seemed, than was his usual reckless pace.

“Cecil?”

“Mmm.”

“What was that sound the penguins were making?”

“Oh! Tekeli-li?”

“Yes! It sounded almost like a chant.”

“It was. They're a little like parrots. They'll call back what they've heard. That's the cry of the Old Ones. And … the Shoggoths.” He shivered.

“That's interesting.” Carlos wondered why his friend had grown suddenly colder. Cecil _was_ his friend, wasn’t he? It seemed the nearest thing to describe their unlikely acquaintanceship. “Oh, here they are!” They had reached the edge of the city just as the transport plane descended from the sky above and put down to earth near Carlos's light aircraft. 

Cecil screeched to a halt just beside where the plane had taxied to a halt. Carlos was out of the car in an instant, Cecil lingering behind.

The door opened, and Danforth stumbled down the steps. He fell to his knees, and vomited on the ground.

“Danforth?” asked Carlos, his hand on the man's back.

“Well, hello to you too,” said Cecil, who was back leaning against the car.

“Carlos! What is the meaning of this!” barked Dyer, who was just exiting the plane behind Danforth. 

Carlos stood up, peering into empty the plane. “Is that everybody?” he asked, feeling a fear grip him. He had been praying that they had heard the radio broadcast and evacuated. But how could they, with the transport plane here?

“Well, of course it’s just us. What did you expect, the whole camp running after you?”

Carlos stared at the empty doorway in disbelief. “But … you're in grave danger. Didn't you hear the broadcast?”

“I should say not. We had no time for such nonsense! Pabodie called us up on the wireless, babbling that you'd been spirited away by some madman with a radio broadcast.”

“That would be me,” offered Cecil, raising a hand.

Pointedly ignoring Cecil, Dyer glared at Carlos. “Imagine my surprise to find you here in this … this dissolute state!”

Carlos looked down at himself, and suddenly remembered he was wearing only his trousers and a laboratory coat. He gulped. “Oh, but there's an explanation.”

“It damned well better be a good one.”

“We were helping the child,” he said, looking back at Cecil for confirmation. “She was kidnapped by penguins!”

Dyer's glare only intensified. “And where the deuce is Gedney? Wasn't that the point of this enterprise?”

“Oh,” said Carlos, once again looking back at Cecil. “We sent an intern after him, and then when _he_ didn't return, we sent _another_ intern.” His face colored, and he cringed internally as he wondered if he sounded half as pathetic as he suddenly felt. 

“We don't have time for nonsense,” sniffed Dyer. “We will get our samples, and then we will return swiftly to base camp.”

“Samples?” asked Carlos.

“We aim to get a Shoggoth.”

“I'd advise you to bring a bucket,” snarked Cecil.

“And you're supposed to be Cecil?” asked Dyer. Danforth, who looked pale and shaky, had finally heaved himself to his feet.

“Supposed to be, and am.”

“Why a bucket?” asked Carlos, who was beginning to feel ill.

Cecil glared at Danforth. “Going for a Shoggoth? The bucket will be to bring back the bits of you we can salvage.”

 

The ride back into town was as quiet as it was uncomfortable. Cecil let them all off at the laboratory. Dyer and Danforth went inside, but Carlos lingered a bit. 

Cecil hadn't gotten out of the car. He sat in the driver's seat, facing ahead, not looking at Carlos.

“Cecil,” said Carlos, who went to lean an arm on the top.

“Mmm.”

“Look, I don't want there to be any misapprehension. Of my intentions.”

“Your intentions?”

“The laboratory is wonderful. This whole town – everybody is wonderful.”

“Yes? But?” Cecil had turned his head, his eyes already full of betrayal.

“After we get Prof. Dyer's, uh, _sample_ , I'm going to go back with him. Where I belong.”

Cecil stiffened, turning his head to stare straight ahead. “Goodbye, Carlos,” he said softly.

“Cecil-”

But the car, giving a backfire, sped away, and Carlos was left alone. “Damn.” He kicked at a rock on the ground, remembering too late that he was barefoot, and stubbed his toe.

He went inside the laboratory, where Dyer was already absorbed in his notes. Danforth still looked ill. “Would you like to wash your face?” Carlos asked him. Danforth nodded gratefully, and Carlos led him upstairs. He indicated the sink, and then began rummaging around for a clean shirt.

“He's mad, you know.”

Carlos looked up. Danforth was staring at him, his face dripping. Carlos handed over a towel. “Who's mad?”

“Dyer.”

Carlos sat down on his bed. “Why do you say that?”

“He- He's jealous of Lake's finds. The Old Ones. And even the mountains! He was already simmering mad, and then we heard that radio broadcast where Cecil called you the head of the team. Threw him off.”

“I thought he said you hadn't heard the broadcast?”

Danforth waved his hand. “He listens to every word. He told everybody we were coming after you and Gedney, but we came to get his blasted Shoggoth. He wants to make a name for himself.”

“Then why didn't he bring Pym? His journalist?”

“Doesn't trust him. He doesn't trust anyone anymore, except me. Because Papa is basically bankrolling this expedition.” Danforth sat down on the bed next to Carlos. 

“You've dug up some more Old One carcasses?”

“Yes. The smell is horrific. It's driving the dogs mad.”

Carlos scratched under his chin. “The camp is in danger. We need to get them out of there.”

“Dyer is not leaving without his Shoggoth.”

“Why is he gotten so focused on it?” It made little sense, Carlos thought, his mind stretching back to the interview. Cecil had barely mentioned them it seemed.

“He's been reading the _Necronomicom_. He didn't tell anyone, but he was sure some of those old, cursed things must be down here. Well, he got his wish.”

Carlos sighed. It wouldn't be easy, but he had to be decisive, since Danforth was in bad shape. “We'll get one then.”

“You've seen them?”

“No. But we've seen an Old One.”

“Oh God no. A living one?”

“Well, almost. It was approaching us. But we got away! We'll be fine. We'll manage this.”

“How?”

“We'll improvise,” said Carlos wishing he felt half as confident as he tried to sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes for this chapter: the radio station interns, in case you hadn't already guessed, are all named after polar explorers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos's haircut is interrupted by the arrival of an old friend, and the boys go hunting Shoggoth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this one gets a teensy bit NSFW.

“Thank you for this, Telly.”

“Anything for our scientist,” said the barber, who was standing over Carlos, snip-snip-snipping his sheers through the air in giddy anticipation of pruning the scientist's dark, tangled mane.

“So, that guy with the sour face thinks it's too long?” asked John Peters who, despite being, you know, a farmer, was hanging out in Telly's barber shop, reading the magazines whilst he chewed on a stalk of grass. Sitting in the barber chair, Carlos nodded, causing Telly to jerk his head back into position. “Why don't you tell him to go hang himself?”

“Well, I'd like to, but he's the head of our expedition.” Carlos turned his head again, and Telly turned it back again.

“I thought you were the big boss?”

“Only in Cecil's mind.” Carlos heaved a sigh, gazing sadly into the mirror. Cecil quite obviously thought Carlos hung the moon. It had aggrieved the radio host so much when Carlos told him, honestly, that he needed to rejoin his expedition. Well, it was really the only rational course, wasn’t it? He needed to get back to the camp, and then back to Arkham, and school….

“So … does this mean you're going back?” asked John. Telly suddenly stopped his compulsive snipping. 

“Yes. I’m going back,” Carlos told his reflection. He watched in the mirror as his two companions suddenly exchanged intrigued glances.

“You don't suppose-?” said Telly.

“We could ask him!” said John.

“Ask me what?” asked Carlos.

“The Wish Book!” said John as Telly suddenly dumped his scissors leapt for a low shelf. He pulled out a Sears mail order catalog, cradling it like a precious thing.

“You could bring us back our packages!” said Telly. “We've all got orders in from the Wish Book!”

“I ordered a brand new stainless steel pitchfork,” said John. “And some crabtree seeds. I'm a farmer, you know!”

“And I've ordered brand new shears constructed of the purest tungsten!” said Telly. “And whale oil mustache wax.”

“I'll see what I can do,” said Carlos. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at the book Telly had unfolded before him. He didn't believe he'd ever seen this particular version of the Sears catalog before: it had an entire section devoted to tasteful eyewear for your camel or dromedary. 

He somehow didn't have the heart to tell them that once he left, being an impecunious graduate student, the chances of ever making it back to this part of the world would be slim.

“Oh, it's time for the show,” said John, running to switch on the radio. The radio set crackled to life, and a familiar, comforting voice emerged from the large speaker.

_“Terrible news listeners. It's about our town’s favorite newcomer, Carlos.”_

Carlos cringed as Telly spread a cloth cape out over him.

_“I've just gotten news that dear Carlos – dear, brave, beloved Carlos – is going to get his perfect hair cut!”_

“Can we shut that off?” grumbled Telly.

_“And not just by any barber, no! But by the treacherous Telly, the vile villain who always cuts hair far, far too short.”_

Telly reached for the radio dial while a grinning John swatted his hand aside.

_“How will our small town endure this tragedy? I cannot say. I cannot say! But if you do see Carlos – sweet, valiant Carlos – please tell him that we have a friend of his waiting for him at the station.”_

Carlos was out of the chair, heading out the building, before Telly could yell at him to give the cape back. John sat back and chuckled.

 

“Gedney!” said Carlos.

Gedney blinked at Carlos, a confused look in his eyes. 

“Intern Dana found him,” said Cecil, indicating the bright-eyed, dark-skinned young woman standing nearby.

Carlos embraced Gedney, pounding his back. “We're very grateful to you, Dana.” 

Gedney emitted a sort of sound halfway between a squawk and a purr.

Dana smiled. “Found him in a penguin nesting area. You guys gave me the idea.”

“But we were just there the other day,” said Carlos.

“There are several smaller nesting areas near the edge of town,” Dana explained.

“He'll probably be a tiny bit shell-shocked for a while,” said Cecil as Gedney picked up a raw fish and downed it in one gulp. 

“Um, yes,” said Carlos. 

Dana was smiling at him. “He's kind of cute. My family could take him in for a few days. Get him eating cooked food again. I mean, I assume that’s what he liked, before?”

Carlos nodded, and Cecil said, “Thanks, Dana.” She led Gedney, waddling and flapping his hands, out of the room.

“Thank you, Cecil. I can't express how grateful we are – _I am_ – for this.”

Cecil shrugged. He wasn't meeting Carlos's eyes. “You're going to hunt a Shoggoth,” he said, his voice strangely flat and emotionless.

“It's not a _hunt_ , Cecil. We're not even bringing guns! Prof. Dyer simply wants to find a preserved specimen. Like Lake did with the Old Ones.”

“Guns wouldn't do you any good. Shoggoths don't die.”

Carlos shuddered. Somehow, he knew the radio host was speaking the truth. “Cecil, people back at the camp are in danger. My friends!”

Cecil finally looked up, his voice barely audible. “Please don't go.” He made to leave the room.

Carlos stood in his way. “Do you know anything that can help? Do the Shoggoths have any weaknesses? Anything at all?”

“Nothing.” Cecil sighed and pushed past Carlos.

“It was good knowing you, Cecil. You're- You're a good person. I wish-” But Carlos couldn't make himself go on. “Goodbye, Cecil.” He forced himself to turn to leave.

“The face.”

“What?” Carlos turned around. 

Cecll's eyes were red-rimmed. “The face. If you can stand looking at it: it's supposed to drive men mad, but you may be.... You may be different. But the face is more sensitive. So they say. Though God knows who 'they' are, and why they're spending their time meddling in our affairs.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Cecil’s voice was soft: he appeared to be speaking more to himself than to Carlos. “And they’re telepaths. They’re sensitive to radio waves. That’s how the old ones controlled them. Though obviously it didn’t work terribly well in the end.”

Carlos gripped Cecil's shoulders. “Cecil. Thank you. I- I will see you again. Soon!” Cecil shuddered, and Carlos found he wanted nothing more than to take the frightened radio host into his arms. However, with an effort, Carlos removed his hands and strode out of the station, trying to effect a confidence he in no way actually felt.

 

The Shoggoths were reputed to dwell in the highest, most remote part of the city, alongside the mountain range. Big Rico had drawn a map for him, since Carlos hadn't the heart to ask Cecil about it. The restaurateur had warned them strongly that the area was dangerous. His wife had prepared them some kind of sandwiches for the trip. Since the bag was moving, making a sort of throbbing motion, Carlos hadn't bothered to open it, but merely stuffed it in his pack with the map and a thank you.

Despite what he had told Cecil, he also tucked his pistol into his pack.

And so they set forth, the three of them, Prof. Dyer taking the lead. Danforth, who barely spoke, followed along, and Carlos was at the back. They stopped a couple of times on the way so Danforth could make a rubbing of a particularly interesting hieroglyphic picture or two, although Carlos suspected the graduate student was simply trying to delay the inevitable a little longer. 

Carlos pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. It was actually getting cold up here, as they gained in altitude after ascending a number of stone staircases and ramps. Only the centermost part of Night Valhal-La was still occupied – by humans, that is – so as they drew near to the building they were seeking on the outskirts, the structures became much worse for wear. They ended up frankly scrambling up piles of rubble, Carlos and Danforth stopping from time to time to help the now lagging Dyer, who firmly insisted on coming along all the way to the end.

“So what is your relationship to this _Cecil_ person?” asked Dyer when they had stopped for a moment’s rest. 

Carlos was taking a drink of water from his canteen. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Cecil has been a guide for me in this place. As have several of the other citizens.”

“Citizens? Balderdash. They’ve all gone mad.”

“All of them? But Cecil-“

Dyer snorted in derision. “Haven't you figured it out yet, Carlos? Cecil is obviously a radio operator from some expedition that lost its way.”

Carlos was silent for a moment. Was Dyer implying what he thought? He caught Danforth’s eye. The graduate student shrugged, as if he had heard Dyer’s speculations before. “So you’re saying, all of the citizens of Night Valhal-La-“

“It’s no great mystery Carlos. Think! Be rational, instead of carried away. Consider how many lost expeditions have tried to conquer this part of the world.”

Carlos could scarcely believe what he was hearing. How could a man of science ignore the evidence in front of him? “You think these people are all lost explorers? Every single one?”

“Stands to reason. A frigate gets trapped in the ice, so the crew has to spend a winter down here, and sends a party or two overland….”

“Dyer, that can’t be the entire explanation. There are children here. And schools! And even a local government, though the effectiveness is questionable.” Carlos smiled slightly, remembering his frustration with the tap-dancing City Council.

“Isn’t that usually the case?” muttered Danforth.

“Nonsense. It all has a rational explanation!” Dyer insisted.

“It most certainly does. But is it the one you’ve apparently settled upon?” Carlos felt his cheeks were flushed, but not from exertion, nor the altitude. In the corner of his eye he could see Danforth looking back and forth between them, nervous as a puppy.

Dyer rose to his feet, looking Carlos up and down. “You surprise me,” he said. He turned and pointed up the hill. “If I am not mistaken, that is our goal, is it not?”

Both Carlos and Danforth directed their gazes up the mountain. Indeed, there stood the structure Big Rico had described, a weird, five-sided façade that abutted the hillside. This was the mouth of a great tunnel that led deep into the very center of the great mountain range.

The entrance to the building had partially collapsed, so they edged, one by one, over the crumbling piles of masonry and slipped inside, igniting their flashlights. They heard the sound of water dripping. Carlos cast his light around. The structure was in bad shape, as portions of the ceiling had caved in along the way. 

“What's that smell?” asked Danforth. Indeed, it smelled rank inside: as bad as the Old One, rotting in the sun, but with something foul added even to that. A broken egg left in the pantry.

“Sulphur,” said Carlos. 

“I wouldn't wonder if there's volcanic activity nearby,” said Dyer.

“Great, that’s just what we need,” grumbled Danforth. “Boiling lava.”

“Buck up, Danforth,” said Dyer. “Come on.” And without waiting for a reply, Dyer turned and proceeded down the dark, fetid tunnel. 

Danforth crinkled his nose in disgust, but Carlos nodded to him, and they followed Dyer. The air grew increasingly rank as they drove deeper and deeper into the mountain. Danforth pulled his scarf over his nose to keep out the stink, but still his eyes watered.

“Wait!” said Carlos after both Danforth and Dyer had gone ahead. They returned to his side to stare at something he’d found on the floor. He spread his hand over what was an impossibly large, five-pointed footprint.

“And Old One!” said Danforth immediately. “An Old One was walking here.”

“Hold on to your senses, Danforth,” Dyer scolded.

Carlos was squinting at the ground, trying to keep his hand from trembling. “It’s like the prints I found back at the camp.”

“What prints?” asked Danforth.

“Just before I left. After Lake’s samples had been stolen, or blown away.”

Danforth hunkered down next to him. “You think they walked away, don’t you?” he whispered.

Dyer was clucking his tongue. “Oh, nonsense. Those specimens were dead!”

“As my friend Cecil puts it, how could you ever tell?” asked Carlos. He aimed his flashlight back down the tunnel, towards the entrance. “This entrance is near to the mountain pass.”

“If they had walked over the pass,” said Danforth.

Dyer put his hands on his hips and harrumphed. “I wish the two of you could hear yourselves. You sound like raving ninnies! There hasn’t been a live Old One around these parts in many millennia. They’re extinct. Like the Shoggoths.”

“Raving ninny or not, I’m through with this, Dyer,” said Danforth, who stood up to face him. “It’s too dangerous! I’m going back.”

“Danforth, quit raving and come along.” Once again, Danforth looked to Carlos, who was still contemplating the footprint. Carlos rose and, nodding to Danforth, continued along down the tunnel, but his thoughts strayed to the gun he carried in his bag. Something felt dangerous about the particular strain of madness Dyer was showing.

Danforth was the next to call them to a halt. He had been pausing now and again to contemplate the hieroglyphic marks the Old Ones had carved along the tunnel. These markings couldn’t properly be called hieroglyphics, as they were too detailed, and looked more like cartoons. But this one was especially lurid: it showed several Old Ones lying on the floor. It took a moment to realize it what with their strange body composition, but all of them had been decapitated in a most ghoulish manner. He directed his light towards the very corner of the picture. There was something freakish and massive moving off.

“A Shoggoth?” asked Carlos.

“That would be my guess,” said Dyer, who, of the three of them, seemed almost giddy at the prospect. He walked on.

“Might as well get this over with,” Danforth muttered to Carlos. He tightened his scarf around his face and then strode off, walking abreast with his mentor. They disappeared around a blind corner. That’s when Carlos, who was lingering at the wall, heard the cry. He ran around the corner, bumping into Danforth, who pushed him out of the way and then collapsed along the wall, sinking to his knees and vomiting up seemingly everything he had eaten for the past week.

Carlos turned to see Dyer. The stink was terrible here. But that wasn’t why Danforth was ill: there were two corpses here. Old Ones. Their star-shaped, tentacle heads had been torn clean off their bodies, and they both lay in a pool of clotted black blood.

“What happened to them?” asked Carlos, although he felt he knew the answer.

“We’re close now,” said Dyer. “So close.”

“Too close,” rasped Danforth, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Those were alive, Dyer. Alive!”

“Yes,” said Dyer, his eyes shining.

“That’s it. I’m going.”

“No you’re not,” warned Dyer.

“I’m done, Dyer. You can do what you like, but I’m going back.”

“You’re doing no such thing,” said Dyer, pointing a gun at him. Danforth, his face a mask of disbelief, raised his hands.

Carlos felt in his bag: his pistol was gone.

“Wait until my father hears about this!” said Danforth.

“Your father can go hang himself.” Dyer waved the gun, and Danforth, glaring, walked into the tunnel. Dyer turned to point the gun at Carlos.

“Dyer. Think about what you’re doing,” Carlos said softly.

“I’ve thought about it long enough. You don’t know how long I’ve thought it over, boy. We’ll be famous! All of us. Imagine! You might even earn a professorship. You, a poor boy.”

“Dyer-“

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” The cry was soft, like an infant sobbing. Dyer and Carlos both jerked around to stare down the tunnel. Barely visible at the end was something softly luminescent approaching. It was like a bubbling mass, filling the entire span of the tunnel.

Danforth, ahead of them, stood, utterly frozen in the beams of their flashlights.

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” came the mocking voice, its timbre unknown to any earth creature. The dark thing drew nearer.

Dyer, his eyes suddenly filled with tears, pointed the gun, and fired a shot. The thing did not falter. He fired another shot, and another and another, emptying the gun, which he flung down the tunnel.

And then he was running away, as fast as his old legs could carry him. 

Carlos, who had somewhat recovered his senses, yelled, “Danforth!” and turned to run as well. He started to run after Dyer, but hearing no footsteps behind him, stopped to look back.

And inky black tentacle glistened in the darkness, reaching out for Danforth. 

“Danforth, look out!”

But Danforth stood, insensible, while the hideous protuberance snaked out and entwined around his waist. It chanted, “Tekeli-li, tekeli-li!”

Danforth was jerked off his feet, finally, too late coming to his senses, screaming in terror. Carlos knelt down and frantically dug in his pack, looking for something – anything – he could use as a weapon. He drew out the paper bag with Big Rico’s odd, throbbing sandwiches. With a cry of disgust he tossed it down the tunnel, rummaging for a knife. 

The Shoggoth froze. It threaded a tentacle out towards the bag, humming all the time, the intonation almost like a question, “Tekeli-li, Tekeli-li?”

The bag fell open, and the tentacle withdrew as if it had received a shock. While Danforth hung from one tentacle, still sobbing for help, a couple of sandwiches undulated out of the bag and stood, pulsating, on the floor of the cave.

And then a very weird thing happened: the part of the Shoggoth nearest the sandwich started to shape itself into something resembling a hideous copy of a human face, with an array of glistening green eyes surrounding a protuberance that was like a desecrated version of a nose.

The relentless chant quite suddenly fell away, and was replaced by something that resembled radio static. 

And then, as Carlos would swear to the end of his life, he perceived a familiar voice. _“Carlos! The face!”_

Carlos suddenly brought to mind the improbable tale of a swimmer caught in the jaws of a shark. He balled up his fists, rushed to the Shoggoth, which now appeared to be delicately sniffing at the sandwiches, and offered it a firm smack in the “nose.” To his utter shock and delight, the thing suddenly seemed knocked out of its senses. It fell back, its “face” area suddenly disorganized, and it dropped Danforth.

Wasting no time Carlos rushed to Danforth’s side. Gripping him around the waist, he half carried him away, running as fast as he could along the tunnel. “Come on! Come on!” They raced down the tunnel as if the devil himself was after them, which was not too far from the truth, and after what seemed like hours threw themselves up on the pile of shattered masonry that marked the tunnel entrance.

Dyer was outside, looking half crazed, panting and red-faced. 

Danforth dove at him, tackling him to the ground. “You fucking asshole!” he shrieked, hitting him again and again and again in the face.

Carlos, with some effort, pulled Danforth off Dyer. “Both of you! We’ve got to get out of here, now!” He gave Danforth a shove down the hill, and then helped a now bleeding Dyer lurch to his feet.

“I had no idea,” muttered Dyer. “No idea.”

“You’re a shit head!” yelled Danforth. “I’m telling my father!”

“Danforth,” said Carlos. “Fuck you, and fuck your rich father. Now get out of here, or I’ll throw you to the Shoggoth.” He turned. “You too, Dyer.” And so, the bedraggled party limped its way back into town.

 

Carlos perched on the trunk of Cecil's jalopy out in the radio station parking lot. He was still wearing his fur coat. He peered up into the night sky. It was so different down here, the familiar constellations turned on their heads.

“Carlos?” Cecil was standing beside him. He had come up so quietly. “They said you wanted to see me.”

“I do.” Carlos stared at him. Cecil looked relieved, but quite tired, as if the events of the past day had somehow aged him.

Cecil tentatively moved closer. His voice, usually so sonorous, had a small quaver. “What is it now? Is there some new threat? Shoggoths? Old Ones?”

“Cecil.” Carlos paused, weighing how to put it all into words. At last, he simply said, “I can't stop thinking about you.”

Cecil was stunned into silence. For the first time Carlos could remember, he actually looked surprised. The radio host drew nearer, his eyes fixed to the ground, almost shy. “Is- Is that a good thing?”

Carlos reached out and yanked at Cecil's tie, tugging him close, so he stood between Carlos's thighs. “It's a very good thing,” he whispered. Still gripping the tie, he leaned forward and gave Cecil a very brief kiss. 

Cecil batted his eyes and then smiled, his entire face lighting up in the soft moonlight, a beam of pure joy. He leaned in, resting his forehead on Carlos's, hands placed on the tops of scientist's thighs. He sighed, as if the weight of the world was off his shoulders. “I'm so happy you're safe.”

“I thought I might die, and I would never get to tell you…. I would never get to tell you _everything._ ” Carlos gently cupped Cecil's face and kissed him again. Cecil relaxed into him, and they stayed like that for a while, pressed together, just kissing, enjoying the exquisite proximity. 

Carlos thought he could spend the whole evening this way, with Cecil in his arms, but then Cecil pulled away. “Come with me,” he said, taking Carlos’s hand. They got in the car, and drove up to an area of town Carlos didn’t remember visiting before.

“Where is this?” he asked.

“This is an older part of the city. My home,” said Cecil. They stopped in front of a most extraordinary structure. It was five-sided, as was nearly everything in the city. But the architecture here was noticeably different than the other parts of town. In some respects, it looked finer and more delicately wrought, as if the designers had given everything a measure of extra care. As the car circled around, Carlos noticed that each particular side was distinctive, as if it had been the produce of five different architects.

They entered through a heavy wooden door that was carved with arcane sigils, and arrived in a high-ceilinged entryway. Carlos gasped and turned all the way around. This room was larger than his grandmother’s entire apartment. Cecil took Carlos’s heavy coat and hung it on a hook, and then lead him into an even grander room. Carlos frankly gaped. There were oddities aplenty here: strange skulls up on shelves, and odd animal pelts hanging on the walls, as well as lovely vases, delicate statues, and all manner of precious stones.

“This is your home?” asked Carlos.

“My family’s home,” Cecil answered modestly. “And yours now. If you want it to be.”

Carlos grinned as Cecil led him through one amazing room after the other, up a spiral staircase and around a gently sloping ramp, finally arriving at what Carlos presumed was his bed chamber, as it was dominated by a large, four-poster bed. Cecil began removing his jacket, and Carlos moved in to help him along, tossing away his jacket and vest, and then unfastening his shirt buttons. He saw that the odd markings visible on Cecil's wrists traced all the way up his arms, across his back, and over his upper chest, although his abdomen below his ribs was bare. Carlos directed his attentions towards this area of bare skin now, tugging at Cecil's belt.

Cecil suddenly backed him up and gave him a little push, sending Carlos back onto the bed. Cecil leapt up and straddled him before he could get up. “No. No belt until you take some of your own clothes off,” he told Carlos, struggling with his shirt.

“Oh, uh,” said Carlos, who blushed slightly when Cecil got the shirt unbuttoned and pulled it open. 

“Oh good God, are you wearing long underwear?”

“It was cold! We're in the Antarctic!” Carlos reasoned.

Cecil glared, and then peeled off the undershirt, balling it up and tossing it away with contempt. “We'll get you something more appropriate. Silk!”

“Silk? I'll freeze my balls off. And believe me, you won't like that!”

Cecil had scrambled down to unlace Carlos's heavy boots. He tugged one off and ended up falling on his ass. Carlos, despite himself, started laughing.

“And we'll get you slippers,” grumbled Cecil, tossing away the boot and grabbing the other one. He crawled back up on top of Carlos and they began kissing again. 

“This place,” muttered Carlos. “It's really beautiful.”

“You're beautiful. Beautiful and perfect.” Cecil had started to kiss his way don't Carlos's chest.

“I've never been accused of that before.”

“I knew you were coming. I had known for such a long time! But the moment I saw you, I fell in love. I couldn't help it.”

“How did you know I was coming?”

Cecil shrugged. “I know things, sometimes.” He sat up again, straddling Carlos, putting his hands through Carlos's thick black hair. “Thank god that monster Telly didn't get to your hair!”

“You like it this way?”

“Oh yes!” said Cecil, getting his fingers further tangled in Carlos's hair.

“I promise I'll never cut it then,” Carlos whispered.

Cecil came in for another kiss. “Let's get the rest of this ridiculous underwear off, shall we?” he said. 

Carlos readily agreed. He pants had begun to feel damnably tight. It was a relief to slip them off. Then, finally, Cecil let Carlos unfasten his belt. And there were no more clothes between them, and Cecil was the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever seen, pale and perfect, and he had never wanted anyone quite so badly. 

Just before he once again he climbed on top of Carlos, Cecil asked, “Have you done this before?”

“No. Not with _you_.” Because really, that was all that mattered. When Cecil began to ride him it was slowly, almost excruciating. Carlos grabbed Cecil's hips tightly, pulling him down, loving to watch Cecil come undone like that, throwing his head back, pupils blown large, a great void in the middle of those uncanny violet irises. It was tender and violent at the same time, this desire that filled his heart.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together for a while, both just breathing in and out. 

Cecil shifted on Carlos's chest. “Tell me about your parents.”

“My parents?”

“I need to know everything about you. Every scrap. Starting from the instant you were born.”

Carlos chuckled, his chest vibrating. “I don't think I remember that far back.” But Cecil pouted so he said, “My parents are dead now. My father worked in a factory that made aeroplanes. He sometimes flew on rescue missions. He taught me how to fly. He taught me everything. And one day, he went out, but he didn't come back.”

“I'm sorry.”

“My mother – she was never well. Not that I can remember. She died soon after. Or it seemed like soon after. So I went to live with _Abuelita_.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“No. I have a cousin, though. He's like a brother. He's stuck up and annoying. Just like a brother. Here!” Cecil let out a disappointed little grunt when Carlos got up off the bed. He grabbed his eyeglasses, then fumbled with his pants and brought back a wallet. “Here,” he said, fishing out a photo. “ _Abuelita_ and me. That's Ernesto, and his girlfriend, Beatriz.”

“Oh. So pretty!” said Cecil. 

“She's going to have a baby.”

“First cousin, once removed,” said Cecil.

“I suppose I'll call him my nephew.”

“ _Our_ first nephew,” doted Cecil. “You know it's a boy?”

“ _Abuelita_ knows. Sometimes she knows things. Like you I guess.” Cecil squirmed, finding the most comfortable position on Carlos's chest. “You said you knew I was coming?”

Cecil pulled Carlos's glasses off and tried them on for size. “Why can't you believe that? You believe in electrons, but you can't see them.”

“But you thought I was going to leave,” said Carlos, kissing the top of Cecil's head.

“Yes.”

“You would have let me go?”

“I can't keep you here. Not if you don't want to be here.” Cecil tilted his head back to look Carlos in the eye, staring over Carlos's eyeglasses. “But I would have always loved you.”

Carlos smiled. He pulled Cecil towards him and kissed him.

Cecil's handed Carlos's glasses back to him, and his fingers strayed over to Carlos's shoulder. “This is beautiful too.”

Carlos glanced down. He had forgotten about the tattoo. “Oh! That was stupid. Pabodie made us do it when we crossed the equator.”

“But why did you choose this one?” asked Cecil, following a tentacle where it spilled off the shoulder and strayed onto the top of Carlos's chest.

“The kraken? I don't really know. They're lovely and mysterious. I was somehow drawn to it, to the image. And then I had to go back several times, so he could finish the colors. I'm really an idiot sometimes.”

“We'll get you more of them.”

Carlos threw his head back and laughed. “You don't want me to get my hair cut, but you want me to have more tattoos?”

“Yes. I'll mark out all the parts that belong to me. Here, and here, and here,” said Cecil, tracing his fingers down Carlos's chest, down his belly, and then down lower still. Carlos gasped. And then he pulled Cecil towards him and rolled on top of him, kissing him deeply, pressing against him, drunk on his body, his silky hair, his soft skin.

 

“We're going,” said Danforth. It was like a sigh.

Dyer and Danforth sat across the table from them at Big Rico's, Danforth nibbling at his lunch as if he was still nauseous. Dyer rubbed the split lip Danforth had given him. None of them had mentioned what happened in the Shoggoth tunnel.

Carlos sat with an arm loosely around Cecil, who was tucking into his soup. “Tundra Bluffs,” Cecil said, dabbing a bit of bread into the chowder and then licking a finger. “I wouldn't recommend it. Are you certain you don't want to see some lovely glacial lakes instead? Very romantic!”

“I would prefer to have two pilots along,” Dyer continued, while Danforth's lips formed a small pout.

“I'm sorry,” said Carlos, who flicked his eyes towards Cecil. Cecil smiled and patted Carlos's thigh. “I won't be accompanying you.”

“That was not a request,” said Dyer. “That was an order. As the head of this expedition.” Did he sound a little defensive?

“No,” said Carlos.

“You realize that this is tantamount to resigning your position?”

“I am aware of that.”

“Suit yourself, Carlos. I pray your grandmother will find the wherewithal to continue on without your stipend.”

Carlos shuddered.

“I'll warrant she'd rather have a living grandson,” said Cecil, his eyes narrowing.

“You have no part in this,” Dyer told him.

“I have a part in any threat to _our_ scientist,” said Cecil. Carlos looked around in shock: had the room just darkened? And he could have sworn the markings on Cecil's arms had just flicked, like a cat switching its tail.

“We will depart within the hour,” said Dyer. “With or without you, Carlos.” And then, dabbing his split lip with a napkin, he rose and stalked off.

“Danforth, you don't have to go along with this,” Carlos told him.

Danforth pushed his plate away, shuddering. “Yes, I do.” He glanced between Carlos and Cecil, looking apologetic. “I'm a second son of a powerful man. You won't understand. This professorship means everything to me. And Dyer was willing to forgive my … _intemperance_ the other day.”

“Danforth, you should reconsider.” But the other man merely shook his head, and then headed out after his mentor.

Carlos shook his head while Cecil tutted. “Cecil?”

“Yes?”

“Um, I meant to ask you this: you have a cat floating in your bathroom?”

Cecil smiled brightly. “Oh, the one near the sink.”

“Uh, yes. That would be the one.”

“Oh, so you've met Khoshekh!”

Carlos frowned while Cecil continued to sip his tomato soup.

 

True to Dyer's word, they had loaded the plane and set off for the far mountain range Cecil called Tundra Bluffs within the hour. Cecil had given them a ride to the airfield, though Dyer would not meet Carlos's eyes, and Danforth simply appeared resigned to his fate. Cecil and Carlos watched as the plane taxied down the runway, and then continued watching until it was just a speck in the distance.

“I should probably attempt to contact the base while I'm here,” sighed Carlos. “I somehow doubt Dyer told them of his plans.” He went to his light aircraft and turned on the radio. “Erebus camp, this is Beechcraft. Erebus camp, this is Beechcraft. Over.”

There was silence for a long moment, and Carlos nearly turned off the radio and gave up, but then there was a sudden crackling. _“Beechcraft! Carlos! Is that you?”_

“Erebus Camp. Atwood, is that you? This is Beechcraft. Over.”

_“They've come alive! It's a massacre! Terrible!”_ There was the sound of someone screaming in the background.

Carlos shivered. “Atwood, what's happening? Tell me what's happening. Over.”

_“Help us! Oh God help us!”_ There was a sharp crackle, and then just static.

Carlos clutched the microphone. “Erebus camp! Erebus camp! Atwood! Lake! Anyone!” But there was no reply. Tears in his eyes, Carlos switched off his radio.

“It's started,” said Cecil quietly.

“Cecil,” said Carlos, hopping out of the plane and grabbing the man's shoulders. “I've got to go.”

Cecil shook his head sadly. “If you want to go, can't stop you.”

Carlos was grasping him. “Come with me!”

Cecil blinked up at Carlos. Once again, he looked surprised. “I- I don't know.”

“Please! They need help! _I_ need your help.”

Cecil went up on his tiptoes and gently kissed Carlos's forehead. “Anything you want, my dear. Anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes to this chapter: Fun fact, the first Sears Wish Book was published in 1933. Since the company started out selling farming equipment, it’s actually not so far-fetched that Telly would be buying a pitchfork that way. In case I haven't mentioned if before, “Tekeli-li” is the cry of the Shoggoth, which Lovecraft evidently borrowed from Poe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos and Cecil go investigate Erebus camp, and some unwanted guests show up in Night Valhal-La.

Cecil had never flown in an aeroplane before..

On any other occasion, this would have been cause for some celebration. As it turned out, Cecil was the world's best passenger, sitting eagerly in the copilot's seat, asking a raft of intelligent questions, seeming overjoyed just to be up in the air.

Carlos felt a little guilty as his replies were often limited to short, clipped sentences. He wasn't in the best of moods. Although he had made several attempts at wireless contact after the frantic call from Atwood, he had been unable to raise anyone at the Erebus camp. 

“So, you've been to Tundra Bluffs?” he finally asked.

“We go regularly for rugby matches.”

“It's dangerous over there, but you got for sports?”

“It's my home team! It's important. Though they cheat.” Cecil narrowed his eyes. Carlos had already learned that the radio host's genial disposition could change in a flash either over mention of Tundra Bluffs, or some man named Steve Carlsberg.

Despite his dark mood, Carlos chuckled. They were nearing the end of the mountain pass. The sun had already faded. “But you've been on this side of the pass before?”

Cecil became contemplative. “When I was younger, I traveled. I journeyed all over the world, and had many adventures. But I have responsibilities now.”

“I'd like to hear about that some time.” The plane emerged from the pass into a stark, wind-swept environment. Carlos immediately banked the aeroplane towards the camp. He was concerned that he hadn't been able to bring along any weaponry, not that it would have done much good against the Old Ones. But Dyer had tossed away his pistol, and evidently firearms were unknown in Night Valhal-La, so he had been unable to arm himself to his satisfaction. All in all, he would have felt better if he had been carrying his father's shotgun, although he had thought to bring along a bagged lunch from Big Rico after seeing its effect on the Shoggoth.

He made a low pass over the camp. There was no movement; not a hint of human habitation. They circled around and flew low once again. It was obvious that the area was in some disarray. And then Cecil quietly pointed downwards, and Carlos felt a chill.

“Stay close to me,” said Carlos after he had landed the plane. He rummaged around in the back and picked up a crowbar.

Cecil sat back in his seat, his eyes going a little out of focus. “They've gone,” he said.

“What?”

Cecil shook his head, blond bangs falling into his eyes. “The Old Ones. They're not here any more. At least, not any living ones.”

Carlos nodded grimly, but grabbed the crowbar anyway. It's weight in his hand gave him some measure of security. The wind had stilled, and the area was silent, blanketed by a dusting of newfallen snow. They made their way to the place Cecil had spotted from the air, near where the party had broken through into the cavern containing the bodies of the Old Ones. Carlos looked out over the red-stained snow, disbelieving what he saw. His mind was not prepared for the horror that lay strewn there around the cavern opening.

“We should- We should give them a decent burial, I guess,” he finally managed to whisper. “After we have a look around.”

“This doesn't seem like them,” said Cecil. “Shoggoths will attack when they are provoked, but the Old Ones are different. Usually they leave us alone.”

Carlos gulped. “I wonder what set them off?”

“Digging up a grave may have done it,” said Cecil. “But I don't know. They get touchy about the strangest things sometimes.” He walked among the bodies, staring intently. “Is this everyone? Can you tell?”

Carlos forced himself to focus on the hideously mangled corpses for a time. He felt ill. “N-no. I don't see Lake, for one. He was the head of the Erebus camp expedition. Nor Atwood.” He looked at Cecil. “Do you think some of them may have survived?”

Cecil didn't reply, but pointed to the snow. The weird five-sided tracks were there, heading off towards the camp. Carlos nodded and, holding his crowbar, followed the tracks. The trail led to one of the biggest tents. “This was Lake's laboratory.” He frowned at Cecil. Something smelled bad inside. Gripping the crowbar, he opened the flap and slipped inside. His eyes slowly adjusted. He sucked in a breath.

There were two bodies in here, if you could call them that. One was, or had been, an Old One. It had been eviscerated, cut into pieces. “I suppose,” Carlos said softly, “Lake finally got the drill working.” 

On the other table....

Well, it had once been Lake. 

He felt Cecil's hand on his forearm, tugging him out of the room. He brushed the tears from his eyes, and allowed Cecil to lead him back outside. 

Cecil pulled Carlos's jacket tighter around his shoulders. Cecil apparently didn't possess a heavy coat of his own, so Carlos had insisted he borrow one, even though Carlos had few possessions here. The fur trim enveloped his head, so Carlos could only really see his eyes peeking out. “Your friend dissected one of them, so they dissected _him_. I think they would consider this a fair turnabout.”

“One more stop,” whispered Carlos, though he found it hard to choke out the words. He and Cecil walked towards the radio tent. They found Atwood there, or at least what was left of him, though he was in better shape than Lake. Carlos was given proof that firearms did no good against Old Ones, at least if the twisted hunk of metal that used to be Lake's pistol was any indication.

He sat down at the wireless radio. “Erebus camp to base. Erebus camp to base. Over.”

_“This is base!”_ came a voice. _“Well, fook me for a joke! Carlos!”_

“Pabodie!” said Carlos, cheered to hear his friend. “It's so good to hear your voice. Over.”

_“We got a frantic call from Atwood. Then when we didn't hear from them, we feared the worst.”_

Carlos began to speak, but then found he had no voice. He sat for a moment, sobbing quietly.

Cecil, gripping Carlos's shoulder, slid the microphone close to himself. “My name is Cecil.”

_“Cecil? The real one?”_

“Yes, I'm quite real. Though I am grieved to report that evidently, none of the personnel at this camp have survived.”

There was a long pause at the other end. Finally, a single word, _“Damn.”_

“I have some good news for you too, Mr. Pabodie. We have located your Mr. Gedney. He is safe from harm.”

_“Carlos! Is this true?”_

“Yes,” Carlos managed to choke out. “Yes, we've found him.”

_“Well, how is he? Tell me, lad!”_

Cecil and Carlos exchanged a glance. “He was flustered by his adventures,” said Cecil. “But I believe he will make a quick recovery. One of our station’s best employees is looking after him.”

_“Can you get him to us?”_ asked Pabodie. 

“Evacuate him?” asked Carlos. 

_“We've got a ride out, lad,”_ said Pabodie. _“We've contacted an icebreaker. Some Russkies. They'll be here within the week.”_

“You're leaving?” asked Carlos.

_“We're leaving boy. You need to get out. And bring your friends. There's bad things afoot. Remember the Germans, the ones that brought us here on the airship? They're coming back, and they're bringing lots of company.”_

“An invasion?”

_“Yes. Word from our Russian friends is they want your city, Cecil.”_

“They cannot have Night Valhal-La,” said Cecil. And once again, Carlos felt the room darken as his friend's anger rose. 

“Don't worry. We won't let them,” Carlos told him, although he had no idea what they were going to do. “Frank, what the hell would they want with Night Valhal-La?”

_“Who knows? The Fuehrer is a madman! He’s just taken Poland, and word is he’s eyeing the rest of Europe, and Africa as well.”_

“Africa?”

_“Africa, the Orient! He wants the world. Why not the Antarctic regions too?”_

“Adolf Hitler is a stroppy little punk with a ghastly mustache,” grumbled Cecil.

Carlos pulled the microphone nearer to him. “Frank, we’ll come back with Gedney. Oh, and I’ll talk to Danforth and Dyer, see if they’ll come as well!”

_“Danforth and Dyer escaped? Well, that’s good news. So they must have come after you I’ll take it? I'd been worried sick, you know. Though I kept up with your adventures on Cecil's show.”_

“Yes, it’s a long story. But we need to get back before dark, and…. We need to properly dispose of the remains here. I’ll talk to you later.”

_“Seems we can’t contact you directly, but if you have news, tell your friend, Cecil. I listen every night!”_

“It’s always rewarding to meet a fan,” said Cecil, who was beaming. 

Carlos headed first for the tent that contained their cache of equipment, sorting through for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. Cecil was perfectly happy to assist him, although he remained skeptical that any of it would do much good. After they had an assortment of guns and ammunition, plus what they could salvage of the party's journals all loaded on the plane, they turned to more grim matters.

Since the ground was frozen solid, they decided to inter the bodies of Carlos’s fallen comrades in the cavern that had contained the Old Ones, sealing it up when they were done. Carlos marked the area carefully, in case their loved ones should want to disinter the remains at a future time. 

As for the remains of the partially dissected Old One, he let it be. As it was inside the tent it had been protected from sunlight and so had reverted to the frozen form they had found. 

“Um, I suppose we should say something,” said Carlos as he finished packing snow over the cavern entrance. He had never been terribly religious, so was at a loss.

“These were scientists,” said Cecil. “And they were glorious. They gave their lives to bring order to the chaos, and now have returned to the great void. Did they have an eternal soul, and will that essence live on? I cannot say. But we will celebrate them in Night Valhal-La, for a life well-lived is never wasted. And so may they inspire a show-stopping new song and dance routine from our City Council as our citizens weep and rend their garments, humming along and always remembering as they tap their feet in unison, that it's probably not a great idea digging up an Old One as they’re really grumpy old shits in the morning. Goodbye, Erebus camp. May the deities of your choosing comfort your families back home.”

“But what shall I eat now?” wailed Pym.

Carlos, who had been carrying a shotgun on his person, already had it up and aimed. The journalist had crept up to the grave site so silently he had taken both Cecil and Carlos unawares.

“Good God, Pym! You scared the daylights out of us!” said Carlos, letting the shotgun’s barrel drop.

“Is this one of your scientists?” asked Cecil.

“No, he’s Dyer’s pet journalist. Pym, you haven’t been cannibalizing the corpses, have you? The pantry is still stocked, we just left there.”

“But Atwood had such appealing tenderloin,” moped Pym. “It was a matter of survival!” he added.

“He subsists on human flesh?” asked Cecil, who oddly enough, did not seem much put off by Pym’s peculiar dining habits.

“Apparently,” said Carlos.

“Well, we’ll have to take you back to Night Valhal-La,” Cecil told Pym, taking the man’s elbow. “We have a couple of City Council members who could stand to lose weight.”

Carlos sighed deeply and followed them to the plane.

 

“You're feeling better, then?”

Gedney grasped the cup of hot chocolate handed him. His hand shook a little bit, but then he relaxed, and took a sip. Dana, who was sitting on the chair arm beside him, patted his back. 'Yeah, a little groggy. But I think I'm all right.” He put his hand up to his nose and took a sniff. “I still smell a little like herring though.”

Dana snorted.

Carlos nodded, greatly relieved. They were all relaxing in what Carlos guessed could be called a sitting room in Cecil's enormous house. Gedney was still looking a little peaked, but seemed immeasurably improved from when Carlos had seen him before. Cecil offered up a plate of little cookies. Gedney waved him off, but Dana snatched one, as did Carlos. Cecil was quite apparently having a wonderful time bustling around playing the perfect host.

“Do you remember anything?” Carlos asked as Cecil set down the silver tray and curled up on the couch beside him.

Gedney gripped his mug tightly. “There was a lot of confusion, chaos, people yelling. Danforth swore he saw something – something big. I thought he was seeing things. He'd gotten a bit twitchy, especially since they'd pulled those … _things_ out of the cavern. But then I saw it too! I was bringing up the rear, and it spooked my dogs. I fell off my sledge, and they ran away, and I couldn't catch up. Then I'm in the middle of a storm, alone, no idea which was to go. I must have gotten turned around. I walked until I couldn't any more, and then I lay down. I figured I was done for. But then I remember waking up some place warm, and I felt safe. And … it was kind of nice.” Gedney’s forehead creased into a frown. “Other than the raw fish, I mean.”

“The Elementary Penguins are reputed to be excellent parents!” said Cecil brightly. “More cookies?”

“Wouldn’t mind something stronger than hot chocolate,” sighed Gedney. Cecil fluttered off the couch and returned with a crystal decanter containing a smoky, amber liquid. He poured a dab into Gedney’s cocoa. Gedney took a sip, choked violently, and then waved a thumbs up.

Dana and Carlos immediately held out their cups of cocoa to Cecil. 

“So, you want to go with Pabodie and the Russians, Gedney?”

“Yes, we’re going,” said Dana decisively, as Gedney was still clutching his throat.

_“We?”_ asked Cecil, who suddenly sat forward, head in his hands, batting his eyes.

“Uh, if it’s all right with you, Cecil?” Dana backtracked. “I mean, like I told you, I wanna travel, like you did, and see the world.”

“And…?” Cecil prompted.

Dana and Gedney suddenly shared a sheepish glance.

“Ah, young love!” sighed Cecil. “How could I possibly stand in the way? Especially when I myself have recently found love.” And here he clasped Carlos’s hand and stared at the scientist with complete adoration.

“What?” sputtered Gedney.

“I knew it!” laughed Dana. “All that ranting about his hair.”

“He has lovely hair,” said Cecil.

Carlos felt his face grow hot. “Um, yes, Gedney. I had meant to tell you. And….” He gripped Cecil’s hand. “I’ve decided I’m going to remain here.”

Cecil beamed like he was going to explode with pure happiness. Carlos couldn’t help smiling.

“Is your grandma gonna be OK?” Gedney wondered.

Carlos sighed. “I hope so. You’ll look in on her?” Gedney nodded. “I am concerned about my family back home. But we need to do what needs to be done right here!”

“What exactly are you planning to do, Carlos?” asked Dana.

“We’re all done for,” said Pym. Carlos heaved a sigh as they all looked over to the morbid little man perched on the divan, where they had forgotten all about him. Carlos would have liked to forget all about him permanently. “And then we’ll have to select who shall be sacrificed!” Pym continued, eyeing Carlos’s haunches.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a cookie?” asked Cecil, holding out the silver platter. Pym formed his features into a moue, but nevertheless leaned forward and snatched a macaroon.

“Well, there’s a City Council meeting today.” Carlos put up his hands as both Dana and Cecil began to chuckle. “All right, all right. But I need to at least try.”

“Have you figured out how to phrase your request in the form of a show tune?” giggled Dana.

Cecil looked at Carlos, stars in his eyes. “Dana, you’re brilliant!” he declared.

 

“I’m not sure about this Cecil.”

Cecil was sitting next to Carlos in the auditorium, waving cheerily as various friends and fans arrived. Gedney was next to them, holding a phonograph on his lap. “This will be a showstopper. Don’t worry your pretty head!”

Carlos self-consciously passed a hand through his hair. It was getting a little long. He half-wished he had let Telly cut it the other day, although he knew it would have driven Cecil to a homicidal rage. Carlos wasn’t the kind of fellow who gave a lot of thought to his looks, but Cecil treated him like some kind matinee idol, and the townspeople here followed suit. 

And then the lights lowered, some music played, and an array of robed figures bustled onto the stage. “Any new business?” the City Councilman asked, his gavel poised.

“Yes, I have some new business!” said Carlos. And then before he could be interrupted, he pressed on. “I have some information. This city is going to come under attack by a group of evil men.” The citizens in the audience started to murmur with concern.

“Evil, schmeevil,” said the head of the City Council.

“What does that even mean?” asked Carlos.

“Are any of these evil men over aged sixty-five?” asked one of the Council members. “Because then it would be old business!”

“These men have been storming through Europe, like a Shoggoth!” Carlos declared. The murmuring in the audience grew louder.

“I'm about to bang my gavel at you, Carlos,” the Councilman warned. “You're out of order!”

“You're a troublemaker!” yelled another City Councilperson.

Carlos turned and addressed the audience. “But this is serious! This could end your way of life.”

“I’m warning you, Carlos,” said the head of the City Council just as the lights dimmed and music started.

_“At words political, we are critical_   
_That we need to state_   
_Instead of your constant hate_   
_Of our fine estate_   
_You go on complaining and shaming_   
_How ineffective we are_   
_But if our ditty is petty_   
_At least we’ll warn you_   
_How annoying you are….”_

The rest of the council stood up and gathered around for a high kick number.

“ _You should stop_  
 _You should really quit it_  
 _You should stop_  
 _Do we need to spit it?_  
 _Your constant mewling has got us brewing a pout_

_You’re a constant whiner_   
_A big shoe shiner_   
_You’re such a drag_   
_And a crowd displeaser_   
_You’re anchovies_   
_Spread out on our pizza_

_You’re a total downer, a creepy frowner, a sop_  
‘ _Cause Carlos this interrupting’s gotta stop!”_

There was a round of polite applause. The City Council paused, breathing hard.

Steeling himself, Carlos approached the stage and stepped up, nudging the City Councilman away from the microphone. He signaled to Gedney, who set up the phonograph. The needle scratched, and then background music began to play.

Hesitantly, Carlos began to sing.

_“I’m here to tell the story of a voter_   
_Much plagued by politicians of no note_   
_You guys are pressing your luck_   
_And too much passing the buck_   
_Cause mainly you don’t give a heck_   
_But then my thoughts turn to the primary race….”_

Cecil leapt up on stage, to a hearty round of applause, and the two began to dance as Carlos sang.

_“We don’t get to kick out a king_   
_Hereditary rulers we’re stuck with for life_   
_But you guys are elected, so it must be true_   
_Then we’ll get to kick out all of you._

_Some may think of Elder Gods_   
_Those tentacled folks are here to stay_   
_But I’m telling you guys, listen you’re not Cthulhu_   
_So we’ll get to kick out all of you_

_We’ll get to kick out every one I see_   
_You all singing four-part harmony_   
_We’ll get to kick out every soul_   
_And have you asses living on the dole_

_You never let me finish my speech_   
_Democracy you all wanna breech_   
_Wait ‘til my polling place is in view_   
_Then we’ll get to kick_   
_Yeah we’ll get to kick_   
_Yeah we’ll get to kick out all of you!”_

He finished by dipping Cecil, to a thunderous standing ovation, and a bit of whistling and cat-calling (though from Carlos’s point of view, that may have been a bit over the top.). 

 

_“Listeners, we’re being invaded by cruel men from another country. And it’s fabulous! Are you part of a neighborhood watch program? We have the most stunning helmets for you to wear, and Big Rico’s is sponsoring torches and pitchforks for your rioting convenience!”_

 

“I’m still nervous about this, Cecil,” Carlos confessed when the show was over and he and Cecil stood outside in the parking lot in back of the station.

“You’re even more beautiful when you’re worried,” mooned Cecil, tipping Carlos’s head down so he could kiss him on the forehead. 

Carlos bit his lip. “We could get out, you know. Along with Gedney and Dana and Pym. We could just leave here with Frank’s Russians.”

“Russians are lovely people in general, but they do tend to spit on the sidewalk. And they have the annoying habit of threatening people with sharp objects.”

“Is that a no?” Carlos leaned back against Cecil’s jalopy, and Cecil cooperatively snuggled into him.

“As I’ve said, this is my home. And yours.”

“Cecil, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything, my dear,” said Cecil, his eyes bright.

Carlos patted the fender. “Why is it you have the only car in Night Valhal-La, and how the heck have you been getting gas for it.”

Cecil pulled back. “That is a very interesting story!” he declared. “You see-“

But just then, there came the roar of an aeroplane engine, flying low over the city. Carlos grabbed Cecil and threw him to the ground, covering him with his body.

“What is it? Are they here?” asked Cecil. “I’m not really dressed for an invasion: do you think I have time to change?”

Carlos sat up, scanning the sky. “That’s not the Germans, it's our transport plane. Danforth and Dyer! They're back!” He leapt to his feet, holding out a hand to help Cecil.

“That was terribly romantic, shielding me from anti-aircraft fire,” signed Cecil.

“Can you take me to the airfield?” asked Carlos.

“Hop in!” said Cecil, and they were off. Carlos had grown somewhat used to Cecil’s innovative driving style by now, but he was anxious about the well-being of his colleagues. 

They drove clear of the city, and approached the flat area where Carlos’s light aircraft was parked. As they hopped out of Cecil’s car, the transport veered and dipped overhead, as if it were having trouble staying right in the air.

“He’s coming in too fast! He’ll never make it!” said Carlos as they stood and stared. The plane dipped, but then looked like it would abort. At the very last moment, it descended and came careening down the improvised runway as Carlos threw himself over Cecil.

The plane finally screeched to a halt just past the flat area, setting into some bushes at the end of the runway.

“Have I mentioned how stimulating I find it when you’re protective?” asked Cecil. Carlos pushed away, as they didn’t have time for such things right now, and ran down towards the plane. Cecil popped into the car and drove down nearer to the end of the field. 

“Do you have a crowbar?” Carlos called. But to his surprise, the plane's door wrenched open, and Danforth stumbled out, falling into Carlos’s arms. Carlos pulled him clear of the wreckage, and then crawled through the doorway and into the plane. He emerged a moment later, looking frantic. He rushed over to where Cecil was tending to Danforth, laid out on the runway, looking deranged.

“Danforth, where’s Dyer? What happened to Dyer?”

Danforth blinked at Carlos as if he did not recognize him. “The black pit,” he muttered. “The black pit!”

“What?”

“The windowless solids with five dimensions,” said Danforth as his eyes stared somewhere in the far distance.

“Danforth!” shouted Carlos, shaking the man by the shoulders. “Where is Prof. Dyer?”

Danforth suddenly reached out and yanked Carlos by the collar, nearly strangling him. “The primal white jelly.” 

Between Cecil and Carlos, they managed to loosen Danforth’s grip enough to pry him off Carlos. “What’s gotten into him?” Carlos asked Cecil, who was helping Danforth to his feet.

“Probably spotted one of the Proto-Shoggoths. Can make a man a little blinky for a time.”

“A Proto-Shoggoth?”

“Bound to happen, when you’re out poking elder gods with a stick,” sighed Cecil as they placed Danforth in the back seat of his car. 

“I suppose we can ship him out with Pabodie,” said Carlos, settling into the car. “It’s too bad we can’t set the Old Ones against the Nazis,” he reflected. 

“The mooooon ladder!” moaned Danforth from the back seat.

“The Old Ones have their ways,” said Cecil, turning over the engine. “I wouldn’t try to meddle with them. Well, unless you care to end up like our friend. Though he does seem livelier!” 

“Yog-Sothoth!” mumbled Danforth.

“You might have better luck pinning those Germans between the Old Ones and the Shoggoths,” Cecil mused. “That would be colorful indeed!”

“The color of spaaaaace,” said Danforth.

“What did you say, Cecil?” asked Carlos.

“If you stuck the Germans between the Old Ones and-“ Cecil had to stop here, as Carlos had lunged over and kissed him. “Well,” said Cecil when the clench broke.

“Cecil, I love you!” said Carlos. “Let’s get into town.”

“The eyes in the darknessssss,” raved Danforth from the back seat.

“Yes,” said Cecil, who appeared a little stunned himself. “Yes, town.” He ground the car into gear, and they lurched forward.

 

As it turned out, parting with Pabodie was more difficult than Carlos had imagined. 

He had gotten his passengers out to the base camp just in time. The Russian icebreaker was visible in the harbor. The ship, for its part, carried grim news: the German aircraft carrier, the _Graf Zeppelin_ , had been spotted steaming its way south, and should be in range within mere days. 

Carlos had dropped off Gedney, Dana, and a still raving mad Danforth, as well as their baggage. As for Pym, nobody had any bloody idea where he was, so at the last minute, Cecil had taken his place in the jump seat. Carlos was glad of this, as Pabodie seemed overjoyed to meet his favorite radio host, just as Cecil was thrilled to meet a fan.

But then it came time for farewells, and a goodbye toast turned into two or three for the old Scotsman, who Carlos suspected had gotten a head start on them anyway. He hugged Carlos with all his might, and then repeated the gesture for Cecil, warning him to take care of his beloved student. Carlos, by that point, had turned into the best student ever in the history of mankind, at least in Pabodie’s mind.

Wiping a tear, Carlos taxied away and, dipping a wing in farewell, departed the base camp. But he and Cecil had one stop on the way back: they were going to land one more time at the ill-fated Erebus camp to pick up something.

“You’re mad, you know,” Cecil told him.

“As mad as Danforth?”

“He’s perfectly sane.”

“How is that?”

“It takes a sane person to lose his senses at the Shoggoths.”

Carlos nodded.

 

_“And now, listeners, a very special message for our guests! Here is Night Valhal-La's most beloved citizen, Carlos the scientist.”_

_“Thank you, Cecil. Treffen Sie mich auf dem Flugplatz. Ich habe ein besonderes Geschenk, Sie hier begrüßen zu dürfen. Ihr Führer wird sehr glücklich sein.“_

 

“My poor, brave Carlos,” sobbed Cecil.

Carlos put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “We've talked about this Cecil. I need to go alone.”

“But the City Council wanted to sing them a welcoming song!”

“We don't want them to fear any threat,” said Carlos. He and Cecil finished hauling the bulging sack out of Cecil's trunk, depositing it on the airfield. “Now, this is going to start to reek any second. You need to get out of here.”

“Why not me instead of you?”

“Because I speak German, and you speak Modified Sumerian.”

“Curse my inadequate secondary education!” said Cecil. “Are you certain you gave them the right message? I thought you said you were rusty?”

Carlos looked around, uncertain. “I think so. I either invited them to the airfield, or asked them to snuggle with a llama.”

“Carlos!'

Carlos cupped Cecil's face and gave him a kiss. “Cecil, I'm going to be fine. I'm not suicidal! I want to get back to you. You … and that thing you were doing last night.”

Cecil smiled through tears. “You liked that?”

“Oh yeah,” said Carlos, rolling his eyes.

The noise of engines sounded overhead, and several airplanes now darkened the sky.

“They're here,” Carlos told Cecil. “Get back into town and make sure the preparations are in place. This is very important!”

Cecil nodded grimly and got back into his car. Blowing a kiss at Carlos, he drove off, and Carlos stood alone in the middle of the airfield, feeling like a complete chump. Though he was never going to tell Cecil this, it was a stupid plan, and between the Nazis and the Elder Gods, he would more than likely end up getting killed.

He just prayed he would somehow save the town in the process.

The enemy aeroplanes had started to land. Messerschmitts, unless Carlos missed his guess. They were lovely planes: too bad they were being used in the service of evil. Carlos has parked his own light aircraft far from the airfield, and they had towed the wrecked transport away as well. They didn't want to take any chances.

Carlos was the one taking chances right now. He held his hands up as the pilots approached him. _“Guten Tag,”_ he told them, when they had drawn within hearing range.

“Heil Hitler,” said one that he took to be the leader: bright blue eyes and a strong jaw. The master race indeed. He cocked his head, and said in heavily accented but perfect English. “We are fans of your radio program.”

“Oh, thank you.” Carlos squinted at the man's insignias. _“Leutnant,_ is it?”

The man nodded crisply. “You said you bear us a present?” He looked around, and there were sharp nods.

Carlos pointed to the bundle at his feet. He spoke slowly and clearly. “I have two gifts for you. This is the first one. It is the remains of an Elder God. I believe your leader will be pleased to hear of its existence.”

The lieutenant gestured at the package. Noting that he and the other pilots carried sidearms, although none of them were drawn, Carlos crouched down and, being careful to make only slow, deliberate gestures, unwrapped the package.

The horrible stink began to permeate the area as soon as he had opened the outer layer. Some men groaned, and a couple moved away. He finished unwrapping, throwing off the final flap with a small flourish.

The stench was unbelievable. Several of the pilots fell to their knees, and at least one began to vomit. Carlos stood, the lieutenant in charge still stood stock still, staring at Carlos. “This is a fair gift indeed.”

_“It is an abomination!”_ shouted one of the men in German. _“It is a foul thing. It should be burned.”_

The lieutenant swiveled around, drawing his sidearm. He shot the man in the chest. The pilot crumpled to the ground. _“Any other opinions?”_ he asked. His men, pale and sickened, shook their heads. _“This is a great prize, and it shall be returned to our leader. Is that understood?”_

He turned back to Carlos. “You said this is the first gift. What is the second?”

Carlos smiled. He heard it already, the soft call of _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_ coming over the hills. The stench had attracted it, as he knew it would. Living or dead, they could not abide the Old Ones.

“That,” he said, pointing up the hill, “is a Shoggoth.”

The men, possibly sensing the danger, as one all turned towards the hill, and the black abomination now hurtling towards them like some freakish version of a steam train.

Carlos was already running in the opposite direction. He heard shots and screams as he leapt into the tunnel Cecil had shown him the day before. He did not let up running. Anywhere he went, Cecil had warned him, a Shoggoth could follow, and now that he had picked up the vile scent of the Old One, it would be on his tail.

He ran up a set of steps two and three at a time, and emerged in the ruins at the very outskirts of Night Valhal-La. Just as he ducked behind a crumbling wall he heard the shot behind him and felt some masonry break just over his shoulder. At least one of the pilots had escaped the Shoggoth and was giving chase. Madness! 

Another shot fired. Keeping his head down, he ran up more stairs and crossed an overpass, praying that he kept his sense of direction in the maze-like city. He came to an open space and nearly ran into one of the massive, blind Elementary Penguins wandering obliviously nearby. It was one of their smaller nesting areas. He skidded to a halt, and started to go around the thing.

“Stop right there!” 

Carlos froze. Slowly, he turned. It was the lieutenant, aiming the gun right at his heart.

“You knew,” said the lieutenant. “You knew what that monster would do!”

“It's still chasing us. Listen!” said Carlos. Far off in the distance, they could hear the call, _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_ “You can shoot me, but the sound of your gun will only draw it here, and you'll be obliterated.”

“I'll take my chances,” said the lieutenant, aiming his pistol.

A gunshot rang out.

The lieutenant fell, shot right between the eyes.

Carlos gasped and turned. There were several Elementary penguins out here now, fluttering and agitated from the harsh noise.

“Pym,” said Carlos.

“All is lost,” said Pym, waving the gun. “We will have to draw straws.”

“Pym, you madman! The Shoggoth is coming! We have to get out of here.”

Some of the penguins had taken up the Shoggoth's call now, _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_

“I have no choice,” said Pym, now aiming the gun at Carlos and the blind penguins began to swarm around. “Your haunch will provide me with what I need.”

“Pym you idiot, you can't eat me!”

“Why not!”

“Because … because I'm a vegetarian! It's my religion.” And then, as if to prove it, Carlos hopped up and down, and sang, _“Hare Krisna! Hare Krisna! Krisna Krisna, Hare Hare!”_

Several of the Elementary penguins, hearing the rhythmic chant, began to echo it. _“Hare Krisna! Hare Krisna!”_ The one closest to Pym called out, _“Hare Krisna! Hare Krisna!”_ and kicked the little man over with a massive webbed foot. The gun flew from his hand and went skidding away.

The call of _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_ was growing ever louder. Carlos rushed out of the nesting area, ran along an overpass, and hurried down a set of stairs, falling to his knees at the bottom, panting.

A pale hand was extended towards him.

“Come with me if you want to live,” said Cecil.

Grinning gratefully, Carlos grasped Cecil's hand and ran for his car. “The Shoggoth is coming!” he warned. The call of _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_ echoed behind them.

“There's nothing that can outrun me and my flivver. Get in!”

Carlos leapt into Cecil's car, and with a couple of backfires, they were off, driving as only Cecil could drive. As the Shoggoth's cries grew louder and louder, they zoomed along overpasses, through tunnels, around blind corners, and one at least two occasions, down stone staircases. Carlos didn't see Cecil used the brake even once as he spurred his jalopy ever onwards, only a few meters, it seemed now, from the oncoming Shoggoth.

And then they came to a clearing, just on the outskirts of the main part of the city. There were several townspeople there, all wearing their civil defense helmets. Carlos saw Big Rico, Mrs. Rico, Teddy Williams, Telly the Barber, and Jon Peters (you, know, the farmer), hooded figures, as well as a number of City Councilmen and women.

And they were all lining the streets with chunks of a substance that looked a little like meat and a little like a vegetable. It throbbed weirdly. 

Cecil raced his car through a narrow gap in the bait, and then the workers moved to fill the hole with more of the substance.

“Big Rico's lunch special?” asked Carlos.

“He's been cooking for days.” Cecil brought the car to a halt, and they turned around, staring over the back of the seats. “If this doesn't work, then....” Cecil interlaced his hand with Carlos.

“It will work!” said Carlos.

And then there was a roar of _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_ as the Shoggoth hurtled into the clearing, bearing down on the city like an unstoppable freight train. The crowd cried out, and people retreated.

Sitting inside the car, Cecil and Carlos watched in fascination through the back window.

The foul creature slowed, and then abruptly halted right on the perimeter of the piles of Big Rico's lunch special. It formed eyes at the front of it's amorphous bulk, and then a thin tentacle reached out and picked up one of the morsels. It popped one into a mouth-like cavity, and then made a motion that almost looked like chewing.

The creature burped.

And then it reached out more tentacles and snatched up more Big Rico's special. After it had gobbled up a rather large share, it slapped the tentacles on its midsection, emitted another, somewhat louder burp, and, with a satisfied cry of _“Tekeli-Li! Tekeli-Li!”_ , began to ooze away.

The townspeople cheered.

“Carlos, we did it!” said Cecil.

Carlos gazed fondly at Cecil. “We should remember to keep Big Rico cooking. The Shoggoth may come back for seconds.” He looked down at this hand, still entwined with Cecil's. “Have I told you how stimulating I find it when you act protective of me?”

Cecil stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, and then leapt on top of him, smothering him with kisses.

The flivver began to rock.

 

_Epilogue_

Carlos closed the hatch on his aircraft and and tossed the last of the packages into a canvas sack. 

He felt the clasp fall away from his hair, and turned to see Cecil standing behind him, holding it up in accusation.

Carlos's dark, curly hair now fell down past his shoulders. He had kept his promise not to cut it until Cecil gave his permission. As it turned out, Cecil still hadn't given permission. The grinning radio host tangled his long-fingered hands in Carlos's curls and gave him a kiss.

“Why do you insist on keeping your perfect hair all tied up like that?” Cecil asked.

“Because I don't want it tangled in the instruments when I'm flying.”

“Well, all right then.”

Carlos shouldered the bag and they walked to Cecil's car. “Did you get everything from the Wish Book?” Cecil asked eagerly.

“Yes, our friends the Russians delivered the mail.”

“Do you have my package?” Cecil asked. 

Carlos fished into the bag and pulled out a small box. Cecil eagerly tore it open. It was a hood ornament. He positioned it at the front of his car. “Oh yes this will be perfect!” He inserted it back in the box and tossed it in the back seat. “And what did you get?” he asked as he fired up the engine.

Carlos had placed the canvas sack in the back, but had kept a rubber band-bound stack of mail for himself. “Post card from Gedney and Dana,” he said, showing Cecil a picture of a large statue of Jesus dominating a hill. 

“Oh, they've made it to Rio! Excellent.”

“Dana says they intend to travel north all the way to the pole.”

“Ambitious!”

“And another postcard,” said Carlos, showing a photo of a giant squid. It was unsigned, and the scrawled text read, _“The original, the eternal, the undying.”_

“Oh, good to hear from Danforth. So how is he getting on these days?” laughed Cecil.

“They've given him the professorship, according to Gedney.”

“But isn't he still mad?”

“Never made much of a difference in academics,” Carlos told him. “Oh and speaking of Pabodie.” He opened a letter to show a photographs. “The War Department built him a new lab. Here's the picture.”

Cecil glanced over at the photograph of Pabodie with an arm thrown around the shoulders of Cecil's cousin Ernesto. “Your cousin likes the job?”

“Well, with Gedney off traveling, he needed someone reliable. They can't tell me what they're doing, as it's top secret.”

“Of course.”

“And here's something from my sister-in-law.”

“Ah, the lovely Beatriz,” said Cecil, reaching for the photograph.

“My nephew,” said Carlos of the photo of a Ernesto and Beatriz and his grandmother holding a baby.

“Our first cousin once removed,” Cecil corrected. “Oh, look at that, he looks just like me!”

“Yes, I notice a family resemblance,” said Carlos with a grin. 

“Oh, and speaking of family, I have a photograph for you!” Cecil fished into a vest pocket and pulled out a photo which he passed over to Carlos. It showed two rather large, rather white penguins surrounding an enormous, fluffy yellow chick.

“The egg?” said Carlos. “The egg we planted with the pair of father Elementary Penguins? It hatched?”

“It did rather.”

“Well.” Carlos stared at the photograph. “They all seem happy and healthy.”

“They do.”

Carlos gazed at Cecil for a while. “Makes me wonder what ever happened to Pym.”

Cecil laughed. They drove for a while in silence.

“Cecil?”

“Mmm?”

“You know, you've never told me how you happen to be the only person in Night Valhal-La with a car.”

“Oh! Yes, that's an intriguing story. Did you want to hear?”

Carlos sat back in his seat. “I would like very much to hear!”

“Well!” said Cecil. 

The car backfired, and they lurched over a bump, heading on into town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Not sure why I've made a habit of composing fics based on Lovecraft's stories, as I really don't care for his writing. “At the Mountains of Madness” is a case in point, as he spends most of the tale telling us what he's not going to tell us. I mean, it was your choice to write horror, dude. Get a clue! Anyways. In case you were wondering, the various City Council songs were based on “Anything Goes,” “You're the Top,” and “I Get a Kick Out of You,” all by Cole Porter. And, yes, the Germans did have an aircraft carrier in World War II, only they never quite finished construction. Pym is of course based on the E.A. Poe character. Lovecraft was reportedly influenced by Poe's short novel, so I originally wanted to include the author as a character. He was, unfortunately, dead by the 1930s, so I popped in his avatar instead. Pym ended up being sort of a one joke character, but it's the thought that counts, right?

**Author's Note:**

> This one is going to be a crossover of Night Vale and the Lovecraft tale, "At the Mountains of Madness." The story is public domain, so if you're interested, it's pretty easy to find on the web. Also, the Graf Zeppelin flew to the Arctic in 1931 (there was even a commemorative stamp), so it's not completely ludicrous to send an airship to the Antarctic like I've done here.


End file.
